


Ghosts (I'm still in mourning)

by oh_so_loverly



Series: The Hazards of Love [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: (sort of), (up to a point), 70th Hunger Games, Annie's games, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, District 4, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Finnick Odair-Centric, Forced Prostitution, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Odesta, Odesta (Relationship), Odesta - Relationship - Freeform, Post-70th Hunger Games, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Sadism, Self-Harm, Sex Slavery, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 24
Words: 70,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4230573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_so_loverly/pseuds/oh_so_loverly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Letting yourself be sold is not easy. They never said that helping sell someone else is worse.<br/>In which Finnick is (sometimes) a jerk and Annie is (sort of) a mess and they (try to) make it through her first year as a Victor.</p><p>(Obviously I do not own the Hunger Games, nor do I own the characters from it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Her hands are still. It is strange, because on the ride back, she was shaking. Back at the patron’s home, she was petrified. Now she is so still, so calm. It scares the hell out of him.

The elevator dings, reads out, _“Fourth Floor.”_ He tugs her along, through the living room. Her hand is limp in his. He grasps her firmly. She follows without any emotion, any thing showing. His lips are swollen, as are hers; and the rubbed-red coil marks on her wrists probably hurt. He leads her to the kitchen, takes ice and wraps some around each wrist, carefully securing them with a band. Not tight, no, he knows how that would trigger her. It would trigger him, too. The only thing worse than talking to the shell of a fragile girl, would be dealing with her triggered and hysterical.

He does not look her in the eyes, cannot even look at her face. It is not bruised, that would be extra, but there was just enough damage done tonight. There is so much more trauma under the surface than bruises could ever show. He faced it himself. He does not want her to be alone, the way he was.

Mags never meant to leave him. But she could not help being separated from him at the Banquet.

He was taken aside for his first appointment, without Mags’ knowledge.

It happened, then and there, in the President’s Mansion.

He was fourteen and didn’t realize it was because he had a collar around his neck he couldn’t see.

He was fourteen and didn’t realize he didn’t want it, until it was too late.

_(she said later she thought they’d have the decency to wait, since he was so young_

_he had laughed then vomited, when she told him that, because he was high and mixing things he shouldn’t_

_because decency doesn’t exist)_

“Let’s get you to bed, hmm?”

He slips an arm around Annie’s shoulders, guides her towards her room. She still does nothing but follow his lead. His hands untie her robe and it seems she is looking right through him. Thin, luminescent silver fabric is all that was provided her earlier in lieu of a dress, before heading to their appointment. It matches his jacket and pants, the former of which _lacks_ a shirt, tie, and buttons.

Hers, however, takes the cake. Beneath the robe, she is naked. A sudden gasp and a weak slap against his wrists. An anvil of guilt accompanies the action. She is recoiling, eyes widening and Finnick pulls back himself, raising his hands.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispers, swallowing over a lump in his throat. "Please, I-- I'm sorry."

She is shaking, eyes shutting as her breathing comes in quick, rapid gasps. A hand is covering her left ear, and her face looks pained.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. He does not know what else to say. He steps back, giving her space. She sways for a moment, before eyes blink opened. Glassy, the sea-green stares at him, unsure. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Her shoulders raise, but her hand eases off of her ear. After a few moments, seeming to blink back into focus, she nods slowly. He does not dare to touch her again. The guilt sits in the pit of his stomach, a maelstrom churning.

He is making himself sick.

_(What else is new?)_

He moves to the closet, and hears her shifting out of her robe. He brings a nightgown over from the closet.

He trains his eyes away from the sensitive spots. 'Petals,' stylists call them: tiny dots in the shape of seashells. They are just enough to hide her nipples, leaving the rest of her breasts exposed. It is the only cover they have offered her, apart from the silver thong, which barely hides her front and makes no attempt for her rear. He tries not to touch her, holding the robe out and keeping his eyes averted to her left. He sees the rush of goosebumps flecking her skin as the robe slips off. Air against skin might be as dangerous as hands. Flesh is all they ever are to the people who buy them. They need to be more to each other. They do not have anyone else, after all.

"Can..." her voice is a strangled whisper. "Help?"

He nods, slipping it over her head before buttoning it up the back. She slides her arms, haltingly, through the sides; her feet out of her heels. Her hands hang for a moment in the air before her, eyes flitting around. She looks lost, terribly frightened. He finishes buttoning her up, intertwines their fingers, checks on the ice still secured around her wrists. He squeezes her hands but there is no response. He is uncertain what he expected. He lets go, places hands on her shoulders to encourage her to sit on the bed. She complies without hesitation. He crouches down in front of her. Hands carefully unravel the pins from her hair, red curls flopping down as he does so. He is midway through the process when her head leans forward, rests against his shoulder. He expects crying, shaking, everything he has heard from her mentors, everything he has heard them discuss on television. Instead, she mumbles something inaudible.

“What’s that?” Finnick rests a hand on her back, pulling back to try and see her face.

She swallows over a lump in her throat, and shakes her head. For a moment, he thinks she is lost again.

 _“Mèsi.”_ it is a soft sound, and he sees the tears in her eyes when they chance a meeting with his own.

“Of course.” he nods. He continues, removing the pins one by one. Then he stands, hesitating. He expects her to pull away, to retreat into her own world and curl up on the bed. Instead, her eyes are focused, watching with visible trepidation.

“Stay?” the words are inaudible. He reads them in her lips, instead. “Please?”

He hesitates before responding. “Let me change. Okay?”

She nods. He leaves her, easing the door shut quietly behind him. At a last glimpse, she is more a statue, frozen in place, than a girl who gutted more than one person, drowned three more in the arena, and ran hysterical from the decapitated corpse of her district partner. Covered in blood and scratches and dehydrated beyond belief, no: that is not the person who came out, he thinks. Who did come out is a scared sixteen-year-old who can hardly focus on a single point in a room, never mind a conversation.

The floor is quiet, little light save that leaking out from the empty living room. And the mentor rooms, apparently.

Mags.

The door opens as he pauses outside of it, the older woman with her grey hair, crooked fingers staring him down.

 _“Boy,”_ she had said before they left. That garble and halt that she’d had all his life hardly phased him, after all this time. _“Things you do, can’t help.”_

“She’s all right,” he offers now.

He knows that is not why Mags has waited up: not tonight, not ever. She does not care about the appointments, she cares about them, the children made to do things no one should. The children who survived on corpses and threats. She continues staring, and he moves closer, wraps her in a hug. A strange thing: young, vigorous Finnick, and ancient, stroke-ridden Mags.

(He thinks, _She’s stronger than me_

He thinks, _I hate her_

He thinks, _I envy her)_

“She’s all right,” he is repeating himself.

Mags boxes his ear, leans back to study him. He has picked up this habit of hers, one of many, over the years.

“I am, too.” he forces a smile and she shakes her head. He drops his smile, because there is never a point in pretending with Mags. “She wants me to stay with her.”

He says it, nearly like a question, but also as a defense; because Annie needs him, Mags had said as much. He had not been there to mentor her, hardly knew her beyond a face and a name. Until he received his assignment, met her the morning of. They had injected her with things, plastered her in makeup and sent her alone with the Golden Whore from District Four. She is a little girl, who clearly needs help, and Finnick can understand much better than Mags what Annie has gone through. She does not just need someone, she needs a fellow Victor. She needs someone who has been forced into this.

Mags never had to sleep with anyone, this Finnick knows. He never asks why.

 _“Needs us, boy,”_ Mags had said.

Finnick came to her two days ago, holding an envelope tightly with confusion burned on his face. He would not be going to this appointment alone, oh, no.

 _“Start her, before leaves.”_ Mags knew it, before he had. It still made her furious. _“Salo malad.”_

So they had a double-date, an appointment for a foursome. Their middle-aged patron, and his twenty-one year-old wife. The President had not let Annie leave the Capitol, even though her Interviews had ended. The Capitol holds little pity, more irritation, with the sixteen-year-old Victor. They want to get their money’s worth of her. She won by chance, and yes, she had made some kills, but it is not what the Capitol is accustomed to, never mind her onslaught of conscience being distasteful here.

_(“I didn’t mean to-- I had to but I-I’m sorry I--”_

led into rocking back and forth, nails scratching at her neck

she had struggled to answer Caesar’s questions without sobbing)

They say on television that she is, ‘receiving treatment’ in the Capitol. It is not the treatment intended to heal her, however. It is treatment to show her who owns her, and how she is expected to act. No one makes the Capitol regret forcing children to kill one another. No one makes them think about it. That is the secret, after all, the biggest secret of all.

Snow must owe their patron, for something, because there is a precedent (though never one you could trust, with the Capitol) that the auctions happen after the Victory Tour has concluded. He has broken that precedence, along with the idea that patrons can have only one Victor at a time. There are still those sick freaks who want to play with the pretty little Mad Girl, that much is clear. To do it when she is still a fresh Victor, and to add in the previous Victor from her district- well, they must be special, indeed. Quietly, of course: they do not want the publicity that usually comes with appointments with, say, Finnick Odair alone. Annie is a stepping stone, something to tick off their list of accomplishments. He can hear them now:

_“We've got all of Four, except that old bat from ages ago; apart from her, we have had the whole set!”_

Most importantly, of course, was Annie Cresta’s virginity. And tonight, they got it. Finnick had been along for the show. He can do nothing for her. Nothing to offer except pity and his own form of kindness.

(He thinks, _I wish she had died in the arena_

He thinks, _I wish I had died, too_

He thinks, _I should just kill her tonight, before it gets worse_

It always gets worse.)

He is afraid, and that is the problem. His mother is a drunk and senile in the way old drunks get. His beloved mentor has nearly died more than once and now has little to show-- little to say, without struggling to be understood. Finnick cannot pity this girl, too, he does not want to care for her. But he does all the same.

_What the hell is wrong with me?_

A tap, weathered old hands to his cheek, brings him back, and he stares at Mags.

 _“Fè atansyon.”_ it is not proper words, not really, but he knows his mentor’s speech well enough to hear her meaning. _“No renmen li.”_

“What?! Mags-!”

“Know you. _Estipid,_ boy.”

He hears it even after he has changed, after he returns to Annie’s room. _“No renmen li.”_ Do not love her. He has too many weak spots. He does not need another. Still, he goes back to Annie, because he feels he needs to be there as much as, if not more than she needs him. Her chin rests on her knees, in the middle of the bed, though her head raises as he enters the room. She shifts to the left, leaving more space which he occupies shortly.

“Hello,” she murmurs, curling up on her side, facing him.

“Hello,” he replies, a small smile offered. She returns it shyly. “Better?”

She nods. Her lips hang opened for a moment before she speaks. _“Rete?”_

“’f you still want me to.”

She hums slightly in response, but does not look at him. He notices a pin he must have missed earlier. He reaches over, carefully removing it. He fiddles with the hairpin, bending the ends upwards and outwards, until it looks something like an anchor, more or less. He holds it out, and the shy smile returns to her lips.

_(Do not love her, Finnick.)_

He wants to promise they will go fishing or sailing when they get home, that he will be there for her, or that it gets better. That is what he is here for, is it not? To be comforting, reassuring? It would all be a lie. Finnick does not want to lie, not to this girl who weaves in and out of conversations, emerging with shy smiles and a sweetness that both endangers and endears her. She is vulnerable.

Finnick has always had a weak spot for _(weak)_ sweet things.

There is a silence, for a time, she is dangling the mock-anchor, pretending it is floating underwater. She rests it on his cheek. He sucks in air to puff up the side of his mouth, then sucks his cheek back in. She laughs, a deep _tut-tut-tut_ sort of laugh. It is different from the laughter he has heard when she zones out, and different than the one she had when their patron made a joke. It is real, so real it makes him smile widely. He repeats the action, silly as it is, and she laughs again.

They both go quiet, and she spins the anchor so that he feels the metal twirling against his cheek.

“Does it always hurt?” she asks, and the abrupt nature of the question startles him.

Because, tonight, she bled, and she cried, and their patron had cooed and crooned and gone harder than he needed to. And Finnick had done nothing but _tie knots tie knots bind rope around her wrists, press his lips places--_

Finnick looks her in the eyes now, hesitates because he does not know what to say.

“Finnick?” she prompts.

The anchor still rests on his cheek, and her hand is still holding it there. She is blinking rapidly, and he is waiting, because he thinks she may start panicking. If she does, perhaps he will not have to tell her. He hopes this happens, actually, because it would be better than the conversation she is seeking to have. Finnick is not that lucky, though.

“So…?”

“Not always,” he manages. “The first time- it’s almost always bad. After, no, not so much.”

“I get used to it?” her eyes are beginning to go distant. He worries because he is unsure if she has heard him, unsure if he should even be saying anything at all.

 _“Needs us, boy.”_ he hears Mags’ voice.

So hypocritical, so ironic, is her other statement: _“No renmen li.”_

His hand reaches up, wraps around her wrist and moves it, places it between them. She should not be touching him. He should not even be here, not with her, not with everything he has done, and everything they will ask her to do now. The tears appear, and he stays still, watching her crying.

 _“Manke lakay…,”_ she whispers.

“I know,” is all he can offer.

They all want to go home. They always do. They are not, however, allowed.

Annie nods and, after a bit of crying and quiet repetition of wanting to go home, she falls asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, never posted fanfic before.  
> In case you're wondering, I always liked the idea of Caribbean / French / Louisianan influence in District 4, not really sure why, I know it's never stated and obviously they only speak 'English' in the books, but English in the future is bound to be super different from today's version anyways? So yeah, thus the Haitian Creole (more or less) words and usages.  
> I can also be found on Tumblr as thelettersfromnoone if you want to contact me outside of here :) Comments and such are always appreciated!! <3


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Finnick has a meeting.

The President’s office is familiar. Too familiar, after all of these years. Mahogany wood desk, sparse on any and all other decor that does not scream Capitol. _Warmest of all wood,_ Blight called mahogany once, but this office would need more than that to warm it up.

"Mister Finnick Odair." Egeria, currently the assistant to President Snow's favored personal secretary, approaches Finnick with a smile. She offers her hand. "So lovely to see you again."

"And I, you," he kisses her hand, giving a wink. "Looking more beautiful every day."

The facade works, though Finnick wants to throw up at his own words. Egeria, however, blushes slightly, before gesturing towards the outer door.

"The President is waiting for you to join him in the garden."

"Excellent."

 _The garden_. The rose garden. As if coming here is not enough of a threat and punishment all in one breath; he further needs to be made sick with the scent of roses. The scent of a President masking that he coughs up blood.

_Son of a bitch._

“Mr. Odair.” The President is already seated at a garden table as Finnick approaches. He gives an amused smile that makes Finnick’s skin crawl. “Beautiful morning, don't you think?”

“Yes, sir.” Finnick tries to contain his revulsion, his contempt. He uses his crooked grin as a defense. "Won't you invite me to a cup of tea?"

"I doubt this will take that long."

 _We leave in one hour,_ Finnick thinks. Then the train will get him the hell out of here. Lingering with this conversation, with this snake, is hardly preferential to going home. He stands before the President, knows his place enough to wait for instruction. He always is made to feel that he is still that fourteen-year-old boy, uncertain and faltering; not a nineteen-year-old who has grown up doing things no one should have to in a lifetime. Not a nineteen-year-old who could snap the President's neck easily, and that is by design. If he were to kill him, there would be consequences.

A cool breeze is viciously pushing the aroma their way. The roses are already making him dizzy.

“Have a seat.” President Snow motions to the garden chair, a fresh bouquet of roses on the table beside it. His eyes are small, black beads surrounded by icy waters; wilting skin. The lips show faint traces of blood. Finnick has heard rumors, of the source of that; the source of the reek carefully concealed by roses.

_(one day, we are going to kill you, and we all are going to laugh)_

“Might I inquire after last night’s events?”

“Of course, sir.” Finnick keeps his eyes level with the President’s, bile in his throat and anger threatening to clench his fist. _Not here, not here,_ he tells himself. “It was a success-”

“I will be the judge of that.” the tone is sharp, eyes narrowing. “Miss Cresta performed quite adequately, I am informed, but I suggest you assist further in her adjustment here, Mr. Odair.”

Finnick does not respond.

“After all, you are far more familiar than others, with our particular... expectations. She holds some interest, of her own. More than I expected, just between you and me. We would hate to disappoint all of her admirers. Wouldn’t we?”

“Sir, Ann-” Finnick stops himself. “Miss Cresta is still delicate, sir.”

“And yet, she performed so well.” there is a mockery in the smile that lingers on Snow's lips, now. “Of course, if our most recent Victor has need of further treatment, she would be _more_ than welcomed to stay in the Capitol, until the time of her Tour.”

 _Further treatment._ Further appointments, further rapes and abuses.

Finnick shakes his head. “No, sir-”

“Careful, Odair.”

There is the snake: fangs dripping with words of venom.

_Poison._

“I only mean, she would do better to return to Four.” Finnick clears his throat. He is losing face. He always does here. It could spell stormy seas for Annie, which is precisely what he is trying to avoid. “I’ll do my best to…” _(-to fuck her over the way you have had me fucked over, and over-)_ “To assist her. Sir.”

“Naturally.” the tongue licks over his upper lip and Finnick’s stare is harder than he intends. “Oh, and do be certain the girl understands your boundaries, in particular, Mr. Odair. She seems to get rather confused, from what I am told. We would hate for her to misinterpret you. Isn’t that right?”

“Of course.”

“Enjoy your vacation.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

President Snow rises, staring until the Golden Boy follows suit. Numb, Finnick reaches out, shaking the snake’s hand (he will not need a reminder to wash it thoroughly later), before turning away.

Finnick makes his way out, and tries not to gag as the conversation plays on repeat in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Fourth of July weekend for anyone celebrating, I may add another chapter tonight, as well, since this one is pretty short.  
> Thank you for reading! <3


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they get (finally) to go home and it is (almost) enough.

When Finnick returns to the Training Center, Annie is in the foyer. She has no escort, and it is strange, seeing her on her own. The new Victor is kept company by Avoxes, it is true, but that is hardly company, when it is treason to engage them in any sort of conversation. Their stares are less judgemental, in a way; more shaming, and Finnick realizes perhaps this is why Annie is here. They will hardly judge her for being crazy. Finnick cannot argue with that logic.

Cross-legged on the marble floor, next to the elevator, Annie is fiddling with a line of rope. It’s newer, he can tell from the effort she is taking to manipulate it.

_Where did she get that?_

“Hello.” Finnick flops down next to her, leans back against the wall. He stretches his legs out.

“Hello,” Annie offers, voice distant. “Mags…”

Annie briefly motions with the rope, as if reading Finnick’s mind. She concentrates. It is a relieving sight.

“Figured.” a small smile appears on Finnick’s lips. “It helps.”

There is a bit of silence that overtakes them, and Finnick watches her work on her little project. She looks better, today, less tired. It is obvious they have already had her go to the Remake Center, so that is likely part of the equation. Her hair is curled loosely, pinned so that it crests over her right shoulder, leaving the left nape of her neck exposed. A silver dress made of the same thin material as last night’s robe straps over one shoulder, the left shoulder bare, freckled, polished to a soft glow. With how thin she is, the dress looks about ready to slide off of the girl. It is made to show off a body that is not up to it.

“Where did you go?”

It sounds absent-minded, but he knows, since she is asking, she must be curious. (Or concerned.)

 _I was having a staring contest with an evil snake, Annie_. That will never do.

“I had a meeting,” he replies. She accepts this with a nod. “Y’all made out without me, though, right?”

“Right,” Annie murmurs.

His eyes move to her wrists, glad that the rope-marks are gone. They polished her up, for the trip home. For the cameras. The reminder makes him anxious.

_(Selfishly, it’s more anxiety for himself than her_

_He really is an asshole)_

“What’re you making?”

Annie shrugs. Finnick reaches over, tugs one end to tighten it. The form tugs to a small stick-like figure, loose and disproportionate. Annie smiles shyly, before beginning to untangle the mess, deconstructing it.

“Papa. He likes to paint,” she offers abruptly. “I didn’t find anything for him here, he…”

Finnick waits for her to continue. Instead, she shakes her head. One hand edges to cover her ear.

“Sorry,” she whispers. He wonders if she even knows what she is apologizing for.

“S’okay.” Finnick responds, keeping his voice that calm, collected version he likes to think makes him sound confident. (It’s the only defense mechanism he ever really had.) “You’re making something for him?”

Annie ho-hums in response, eyes blinking rapidly. “Dunno.”

“Should’ve told me,” Finnick smirks. “You know I make my way around-”

He breaks off because Annie drops the rope, both hands covering her ears as she stares at the floor.

“Hey,” he whispers. His mask falters, and he is glad the Avoxes are the only ones around. “It’s all right.”

 _Don’t go away,_ he thinks. It is too late, he can see it in her eyes.

He picks the rope up off the floor, before prying one hand from her ear. She whimpers. He stuffs the rope to the palm of her hand, folding her fingers around it and refusing to give in when she tries to pull away. Her eyes shut and eventually she clenches the rope like it is a lifeline. Maybe it is.

The elevator dings, and District Four’s escort emerges. The man claps his hands loudly, causing Annie to flinch. Sea-green eyes look about, lost, and she merely stares at the escort when he says they have to get going. Finnick tugs her up, and once again he feels as if he is leading a shell of a person.

The car brings them to the train station. With each stop, slow-moving through crowded streets, people tap on the window, yelling as camera lights flash here and there. They are not always calling Annie. In fact, most are calling for Finnick, or for Daran, the thirty-five year-old Victor who had been Annie’s co-mentor, with Mags. Daran smiles stiffly. His focus is on Annie, looping his arm in hers, reminding her to smile. She manages it, better than the lost look of grief up until that point. He murmurs something to the girl which the rest of them do not hear. She does not seem to hear whatever it is, either. The train station bears less people than in the past, but Finnick stirs them up. Even Annie gets a decent reception from the crowd. She returns the attention with half-hearted waves and distant smiles, probably ones they will take to be coy.

 _It doesn’t matter,_ he tells himself, _we will be home by early morning._

“Very good, very good!” the escort blabbers as they settle in the dining car on the train.

 _“Fè bien,_ kid,” Daran pats Annie’s back as they take their seats.

 _“Mèsi,_ ” lips form the word, but do not say it loud enough to be audible.

“Well. Remember to speak properly, dear.” their escort clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with them using Creel. “We all need to be able to understand you! We have enough to work on, after all!”

“But…” Annie blinks quickly, before searching the faces of her mentors. “But we’re not working at home?”

No one responds, and she becomes visibly distressed.

“No, I won! _Ou te- ou te di, no plis travay--_ I won!”

She hyperventilates, becoming increasingly hysterical, until her words are indecipherable. Daran scoops her up, carries her out of the dining car. Mags follows shortly.

Finnick stares after them, and ignores whatever comment the escort makes about the _‘poor dear’s shattered mind.’_ Instead, the Golden Boy pours himself a drink.

Maybe Abernathy had it right all these years.

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Finnick needs coffee.

Nightmares do not get vanquished by alcohol. This, Finnick already knows. Being reminded of the truth still stings, as do his eyes as they open. The lights in his compartment are blindingly white. Blackened with nightfall, the scenery flies by the windows. Something seems so wrong about the dichotomy. They hardly feel the train’s speed from inside; the night feels unreal. He used to try to keep track of which district they were in, but not anymore. There seems no point in that, to him.

 _Coffee,_ he thinks. Coffee always makes things better. One of the few good things out of the Capitol.

The dining car is empty, save for a redhead curled up on one of the couches. Annie is there, asleep, still in the silver dress that is too mature for her body. Finnick slumps down in a seat across from her, watching. She seems peaceful. There is something so wrong about that.

He might wish her dead. He is not sure. He might just be drunk. Actually, he _is_ drunk. Only, there is more to why he sits there. Partially, it is from guilt.

 _I’m never going to be able to help you._ And it angers him.

He had thought, after his first encounter, _I will never sit on my ass and watch them do this to someone else._

He had even resented Mags, much as he loved her, for being unable to stop it all. Then, his father had been killed, and later, his older sister. The Odair family has been whittled down to two members, just to teach Finnick his lesson. He has played his role since, but it is his, not something he enables his tributes to endure.

Then, only last year, there had been Johanna Mason, and her refusal. The fire. _('What a terrible accident, Miss Mason. Such a shame.')_  The hollowed look she had in her eyes this past Games, spoke volumes.

There are others, before and since Finnick's Games. Some have lost more, some less. But they have not been important, not until now. They are not from his District, and up until now, that had comforted him.

They had not been, are not, his problem. Annie Cresta is.

She is here and she is afraid, she has been raped. She had been innocent, so innocent in her own way. And Finnick had participated in brutalizing her. Snow wants to do it again, and again. The arena follows them all home, this is true, but Annie wears it on her sleeve. It makes her weak. It makes him infuriated, and sad.

 _They will rip you apart, little girl,_ he thinks. _And there’s not a damned thing I can do about it._

He could kill her, still. That would be some small mercy.

He chugs down what is left of his coffee quickly. Too quickly, in fact, and it upchucks with about as much speed as it had been swallowed. He must have made noise, because sea-green eyes open suddenly. Annie studies him, before sitting up, red hair draped over one shoulder. He notices gauze wrapped around her left arm, where it had not been there earlier, and he frowns.

“They gave me a- a shot,” she answers before he can ask.

He nods, then realizes her ‘shot’ is likely a tranquilizer, and that is why she never came back for dinner.

She is standing, but unsteady on her feet. She seems to stumble; he seems to catch her, pull her down to the seat next to him. She seems alarmed, at first, but shakes her head like she is shaking off gnats at low-tide. She stills for a time, before beginning to dip a napkin in a glass of iced water. When she dabs at his lips, gently, with the damp cloth, the guilt resurfaces.

“Annie,” he whispers. _“Konsa regrèt-”_

“Hush,” is the reply. She is struggling to stay present, swallowing over a lump in her throat.

 _‘You took care of me, too,’_ goes unsaid. At least, in his stupor, he thinks it does.

Annie continues to clean Finnick up, runs a hand through his hair. It is compassion, not desire. Her touch soothes him. She is taking care of him. No one has done that in what seems like forever, Mags being the exception. Mags is different, though. The older woman's hands are thick, kinked things that are just as prone to smack him, if he is being ridiculous. Mags is maternal, but disciplined, and tough. Annie is… well, Annie. Her hands are thin, delicate, with a gentle warmth. Her touch is light, though hardly flighty. She wraps ice inside another cloth, and holds it against his neck. She presses a wetted cloth to his forehead, tilts his head back so it is resting against the back of his seat. Her hands return to his hair.

“My papa, sometimes,” the words are even. She speaks as if answering an unasked question.

 _Where’d you learn to take care of people, Annie?_ Finnick wonders if he has missed himself asking that question. Unless the conversation is going in reverse.

Annie’s touch lingers on his forehead, and he smiles dopily at her. She clucks her tongue, nodding to herself. She looks so together that this must be a dream.

“He drinks.” she swallows and eyes narrow, concentrating. “My brother started fishing, for him, when he was my age, and… and Mama would sing to you, right now, like she did for him. But I’m not any good at singing.”

Finnick’s head is spinning and all he can think of to say is; _“Mèsi.”_

“Of course.” her tone is bright, brighter than he has heard yet. Her hand slips away from him and he watches as she pours herself a cup of tea. She laughs to herself, that airy laugh, which means she is not entirely there. Annie realizes herself, covers her mouth. It takes her time to refocus; “Mama hates coffee.”

“Coffee’s sort of crap for you,” Finnick slurs, grinning his Capitol grin. “Mama Cresta’s pretty smart.”

"No," she whispers, before covering her lips with her hand. She looks away.

"Oh?"

"Can dead people still be smart, Finnick?" she is frowning, her question serious, not mocking or bitter.

He understands her meaning, and finds himself gaping in confusion.

"People make them sound better, when they're…" her voice trails, eyes losing their focus.

"I'm so sorry."

"S'okay," she hunches her shoulders a bit, sinking back against her seat. 

"Coffee's still crap." Finnick offers. "Right?"

Annie ho-hums in reply, sipping her tea gingerly. His eyes shut in the lull in conversation. Sleep is a relief, now; at least, there is less screaming. A blank hollow vacuum lets his mind rest. Hallucinations of blood splatters can be ignored, after all.

When he wakes, it is not with a start, and this pleases him. The dusty grey-gold sunrise of early morning graces the whirring landscape outside. He can see, in the distance, the craggy, ragged trees that note the way between Three and Four. Four more hours, he smirks to himself, before his hands shift, touch something soft.

He recoils, before realizing it is Annie, her head in his lap, breath gentle and even. His hand is on her hair. He is still blinking the alcohol away. A few hours does only so much when you have over-imbibed as Finnick is able. But _she looks pretty,_ he thinks. She looks pretty and soft and peaceful. He wants a piece of that, a piece of her, perhaps.

 _She knows a secret to getting through this,_ some wicked thought whispers. It is a ridiculous notion, but his mind is blurred between reality and dream and drink. His muddled mind tells him to steal this peace from Annie while he has the chance. It seems the only course of action: to try and take some of that sweetness into himself.

He does not mean to kiss her sloppily on the cheek, or slide his hand along her side. At least, he does not mean for it to be real; it is an accident, in that sense. That she wakes is worse. Eyelashes flutter opened sleepily at first, before she is staring up at him. He freezes because he realizes what he has just done. She sits up quickly, edges away from him. Her fingers touch her cheek and she goes rigid.

“I’m…” his words trail off because Annie is shaking. Her eyes are wide, unfocused. He reaches to touch her. She withdraws, stumbles out of the car. He hears the door to her compartment shut.

Finnick tells Mags what has happened when she comes in for breakfast. He earns a smack. He laughs and Mags smacks him harder.

Annie will not look at him the next time they are in the same room. He is partially glad, partially disappointed.

 _No renmen li,_ Mags had said.

Finnick is making sure Annie does not get close enough for that to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> may add another chapter, since this one is short, again.  
> I know that Johanna is meant to be 21 in Catching Fire, but I'm straying around from canon, thus her winning the 69th Games, rather than the 71st. Sorry if that's confusing at all!  
> Thankyouthankyouthankyou for reading! <3


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home is where your (heart) house is.

The homecoming goes… strangely. District Four keeps up appearances. After all, they are glad to have their first Victor in four years.

Ron Stafford, who won the 66th Games, hadn't come close to earning even half the notoriety which Finnick retains to date. Caught up in the remaining obsession in District Four's Golden Boy, eighteen-year-old Ron had been just another plume in Four's cap, not the centerpiece itself. Ron has since soured opinion of himself at home, besides. He may be a Career Victor, and earned a rare 'twin' Victory, but he was the very definition of brawn over brains. On top of having about as much personality as a tub of lard, his muscles were the only attractive thing about him.

Yet, Annie Cresta is not a source of pride for them. She is no better than Ron, in that sense. At least Ron had won in the typical, expected fashion. Annie does not come close to comparing to Finnick.

She is amusing at best, pitifully sad at worst. While the homecoming may be festive, it is nothing like the carnival thrown when Finnick won.

A district prideful and half-filled with Careers _(not all of whom had the outlet of being chosen for the Games)_ , Four is uncertain what to do with this girl. They look at her as if she is an animal; they frown, disapproving as she laughs aloud. To be fair, everyone else is observing a moment of silence when she does so.

Annie seems even less thrilled to be here than Four is to have her.

The Victor shakes terribly. The Mayor congratulates her, cues her to speak more than once, before Daran physically guides Annie to the microphone. Mags had injected her with another shot, before they left the train, but it seems to make things worse. The words in Annie’s speech sound as if they are being spoken by a machine: no emotion is behind them. She never looks up from the cards, yet still misses words, as well as whole sentences. It is a jumbled, awkward mess. When she finishes speaking, there is a delay before a forced applause rings out. Finnick tries to give the girl a reassuring smile, after, but she does not see it. He wonders if she sees anyone at all.

Distant, Annie is terribly distant. Daran and Mags frame the girl on the stage. She looks like a blood-drained doll, lifeless and painted and dressed today in gold. Daran’s arm firmly loops his tribute’s, as if she might flee. The key to the Cresta’s new house in Victor’s Village is placed into a palm that needs to be prompted to open by the mentors. When the Mayor holds out his hand to shake it with the newest Victor, Annie stares back, vacant and unfocused. The Mayor finally reaches over, takes Annie’s hand in his, pats her gently. The gesture is not returned. No one seems to mind. The near-catatonia lasts throughout the ceremony, until it is nearing the end.

Then, Annie spots her family in the crowd.

“Bo!” it is a shriek and a sob and excitement, all rolled into one. _**“Bo!”**_

She runs to them, in the middle of another speech, causing a ruckus. She throws herself into the arms of ‘Bo.’ The man’s sea-green eyes and freckles are similar to Annie’s, though his skin has been kissed darker. A rounded face, not unlike Annie’s heart-shaped one, is framed by hair that is more strawberry red, almost blonde. He is not tall, but still muscular, where Annie is petite and lean, and just at a glance Finnick understands Bo is an active fisherman. His muscles speak to intensive physical labor, skin showing that it is done out in the harsh glare of the ocean.

Bo seems familiar to the Golden Boy, by looks, from back when  _the_  Finnick Odair actually attended school. Not Four's Career Center, no; the Center has always been too select and expensive. Finnick knows all of his classmates from the Center, tries to ignore their veiled jealousies. Career-trained, without the experience in the Games; they fail to understand Finnick's reality, when he is, to all outward observers, living all that the Career Center had ever promised children of District Four.

Finnick clenches his fists, to bring himself back with the pain of nails hard-pressed against palms. 

 _Wake up, dumbass,_ he can practically hear Johanna Mason in his head.

(Or his mother; Johanna and Mrs. Odair always have had that same, funny way of spitting and hissing angrily, rather than talking.)

 _“Fre,”_ Mags garbles. She shrugs at those on stage who appear irritated.

The Mayor’s face twitches, clearly unhappy with the scene.

Bo Cresta smiles at the cameras over his sister’s shoulder, while she apparently forgets about them. Annie is blabbering in Creel, words broken only by intermittent sobs and tears. Then, a darker-haired man who does not resemble either of the siblings, takes the girl in his arms. He shields her as best he can from the cameras. She stills and quiets then, in the older man’s arms, and the ceremony finishes without any further interruptions.

Daran reads the lines Annie unintentionally refuses. It is something of a relief; at the least all of the necessary rhetoric is delivered without pause. As the crowd dissipates from the square, many of Four’s citizens stare with curiosity at the Crestas. The Victor and her family remain in place. Daran and Mags approach, receiving warm greetings from Mr. Cresta and Bo. Another young woman joins them, hugging Annie tightly.

This woman reminds Finnick too much of his sister, tall and athletic, bronzed-blonde hair, blue-green eyes--

_It isn’t Mare, get yourself together._

Finnick nods in passing to Bo Cresta, the only one who seems to notice the Golden Boy. The man smiles tightly, before the young woman who looks like Finnick’s sister diverts Bo’s attention. Finnick leaves the square as quickly as all of his local ‘fans’ will allow. By the time his feet hit the sand out behind his Capitol-drenched Victor house, he strips without thinking, running into the crashing waves and letting the saltwater swallow him whole.

The arms of the ocean always welcome him back best.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyouthankyou<3


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Care, but do not love; help, but do not get attached.  
> Big joke.  
> Because Finnick still has a weak spot for (weak) sweet things.
> 
> (or, because cookie deliveries can be awfully painful.)

They avoid each other. Or, at least, Finnick avoids Annie, as he supposes she does him. In doing so, he avoids Daran, who he is all right with not seeing, but also Mags. She must understand, because if it were a big deal, the oldest Victor would undoubtedly bust the door down without hesitation. She has before.

Finnick’s Victor Village house is at the end of the row, on a peninsula which trails off to the south and east. White sands with sandy grasses become a stone jetty, until it eventually dissolves into sea-green water. Mags’ home is his only abutting neighbor, and he thinks he sees her watching him, every so often, from her small back steps, or her self-made dock. It is enough to know, that Mags is not really letting him alone, just giving him his space.

After the Capitol, Finnick needs all the space he can get; as few grabby-handed, lustful persons, as possible.

It is easy, and a blessing, really, to avoid Annie, after what had happened on the train. Besides, what does a nineteen-year-old man have in common with a sixteen-year-old girl? More than they would care to discuss, honestly, but Finnick prefers to ignore reality a good deal when he is home. Annie will be seventeen soon, he knows. The Victory Tour will land them in the Capitol, just in time for her birthday. They have said something about it on television, about how: _“the poor dear should come to the Capitol, have proper treatment. Perhaps, if she had a Capitol celebration--!”_

Finnick had turned it off, then, to shut out everything associated with the Capitol, with the Games… with Snow. By association, he is shutting out his fellow Victors. He can only do so much, anyway. He cannot change their roles. He has done enough, at least, to please himself; to ease his conscience. He helped her after her first appointment, that should quell his guilt, should it not?

Days on end pass in blissful isolation. He manages to avoid not only Annie, Mags and Daran, but everyone in Victor’s Village (never mind the rest of the District). Milk gets delivered, always is awaiting him in a glass jar on his front step every morning. Fresh water runs out the pipes, lights and television work without fail; toiletries abound, after months of storage while Finnick has been away. Fresh fish lay out in the ocean, some speared, some hooked, still others netted. He has little need to leave the house, in ways that involve interaction with other people; and so he stays in, and pretends to have no one and nothing outside of himself.

It is nice, the pretense. It almost feels real.

His mother lives back on the other side of Town. He tries not to think of her. As always, this is pointless. Things Finnick has tried to lock out seep through the cracks in his defenses, gnaw at him from the inside out. Mrs. Odair is lodged where the Odair tribe once  resided, in the division District Four calls Waterside. She is supported by Finnick’s purse, though he rarely, if ever, gives money to her in person. Mrs. Odair is decidedly far enough, where mother and son do not concern one another. Finnick knows how his mother feels about his activities in the Capitol. Mrs. Odair knows how her son feels about her drinking. So, they do not speak, unless she is in need of money. She forgets that she needs it, at times; at others, she forgets what he has already given, and demands more. She is lost, in a different kind of haze than Miss Annie Cresta. Mrs. Odair is lost in a haze of anger and bottles and bitterness. She keeps going at it.

He probably will not go to the funeral, if ever it comes to that.

He once told her that she is less of a mother to him than Mags. He should probably feel badly for that, but he does not, really. If he does, it is more for himself, for his own pain and hurt and turmoil, than for the woman who gave birth to him.

Finnick sometimes wonders if he should join his mother, meet with her; try and make up for the damage done in the past five years. Try to be the boy who always made his family oh-so-proud. The boy who gutted and slashed his way out of the Career Pack; returned to cheering crowds, and his family’s approval. Mostly, he ignores this nagging thought. It is easier- better, even. Some things are better not to fight.

And so, Finnick contents himself in sweaters and loose bottoms, rows out and fishes on his own. He dives into the deep, tries to test himself against the pressure. Sometimes, he tries to stay underwater until he cannot breathe. His own form of suicide would be so much more pleasant than whatever end-game the Capitol and President Snow will one day give him. He never does have courage enough to go through with it, cowardly as he is.

Finnick Odair might have a death-wish, but he does not really want to die.

(He thinks, _If I die, so does Mags._

He could never do that to her.

The Capitol wins again.)

He sleeps outside, sometimes, does the mandatory crunches and pull-ups; envisions, as he practices his core strength, that it is Snow he is beating and twisting and crushing. He lets the cool, salted air take him away, lets himself feel like he is someone else. A grumpy old fisherman who lives by the sea, perhaps. Happily, deliciously, alone. A figure in one of those tales District Four tells their children: sea-castles and mermaids. Great voyages on the sea, ones where the fish is large as a house, and the crew a sole man, facing off against the deep; _‘The lonely fisherman has no need for anything but his elusive and vicious prize.’_

Mags comes to him, once, with a basket piping hot, plaid cloth packaging inside. Seagrass cookies, homemade. The one recipe which the old woman refuses to share with anyone else in the District.

(Mags had a son once. Finnick has seen old pictures.

No father or daughter or siblings or parents, just a son.

She will not elaborate what happened.

Finnick has never asked, beyond her affirmation and change of subject.

Some people need secrets.

And some secrets aren’t Finnick Odair’s business.

He still wonders if the boy knew Mags’ cookie recipe.

He wonders if she will take that to her grave.)

She lets herself in his house. Mags is in the hallway, before he has risen from the couch, or heard her approaching. She taps his cheek, not with a smack but gentle affection.

“Sorry,” he offers. He knows she will understand, so he does not explain.

_Sorry for pulling away this month._

_Sorry for not coming to your weekly sweet teas._

_(Sorry for being like this, when all you have ever done is be kind to me.)_

He ought to have guessed it would be her, this old woman who more or less raised him, who would break the farce. He cannot even be angry with her for it. He takes the basket, proceeds to unfurl the wrappings.

“Oy!” the woman swats his hand, motioning towards the house across the way.

 _Not for you,_ he knows she is saying in her silence. _For the Crestas._

Finnick quirks a brow. He knows the Crestas have moved in there. He has tried not to notice, _honest!_ , but Finnick Odair is inquisitive to his own fault. He has spied Annie’s father, coming and going each morning. He has heard screams, every so often, mostly in the middle of the night (though the screams really know no limit). He has been tempted to offer help, in fact; but more tempting is the option to sit still and do nothing. Permit another to comfort the girl.

 _No renmen li,_ Mags had said.

Only the other day, he heard the smashing of glass and a man’s bellow.

It prompted him to head to the door, that time, though he never did work up the nerve to do much more.

Finnick groans now, but Mags gives him a glare that leaves no alternative. He hooks his arms in hers, and they pad, slowly, across the way. The inside door is wide opened, while the light, screen door slaps lazily in a breeze. They barely step two inches in the house when a crash from the back of the house sounds, a figure running out towards them, down the long hallway. Red hair flashes past them before Annie is flying up the stairs, slamming a door behind her when she reaches the second-floor landing.

Finnick stands there, blinking. Mags appears unimpressed. In fact, the old woman yawns. A woman, around twenty-five or so _(the blonde who resembles Mare, who Finnick had spotted back during their Homecoming)_ , emerges a short time later. She comes out from the room where Annie had just run from. The kitchen, Finnick knows, since all of the houses are laid out the same way. The bronzed-blonde, with blue-green eyes, pauses at the sight of the Golden Boy and the old woman.

“Thanks.” the young woman’s tone is short. Her hands take the basket from Finnick’s hands; the woman motions behind them, towards the door. “Not a good time, obviously.”

Finnick hesitates, eyes drifting towards the door through which Annie has just disappeared.

“I’ll bring the basket back later.” the woman tags on, sounding defensive, eyes narrowing.

A tug on his arm, and Finnick walks with Mags, back to her own house.

He hops on the counter, shifting random odds and ends that clutter the counter. Finnick frowns to himself as she begins to fix up some sweet tea, tsk-ing him impatiently when he offers assistance. She makes him feel like he is fourteen again, hiding here after an argument with his parents, about how his behavior had been ‘unbecoming of someone of his status,’ or why he couldn’t just ‘stop being a shameless flirt for once!,’ or something like that. Mags would cook for him, spoil him with sweet tea and cookies-- and he would change her lightbulbs, unasked. Reach up to dust the tops of the cabinets, when it is springtime and she has cleaned every inch except that which is above her head. They always have had a silent camaraderie; comfort in the dark. Mags has always been his safe-haven.  

It has nothing to do with her house, really, just her.

“So, can I ask,” Finnick quirks a brow again. “What the hell was the point of that?”

Mags boxes his ear, clucking her tongue. Finnick remembers Annie clucking, similarly, on the train. He begins to laugh to himself.

“Needs us,” Mags garbles, mixing sugar in with the orangey-red colored drink. “Family no _pa ase.”_

“You said not to care.” Finnick draws his expression blank, despite knowing Mags will see right through it. He looks away, smirking and resting his head against the cabinets. He imitates her voice; _“No renmen li,_ Finnick.”

 _“Estipid,_ boy.” she rolls her eyes, giving him a reprimanding look that never fails to make him laugh. She might smack him for his comments here or there. For now, though, Mags motions for him to lean in closer. Her voice lowers, words straining and halting. It is a good thing he is able to understand her without subtitles. _“Deja fè._ You care. Good care. But _no renmen li, cheri._ You still help. Yes?”

Finnick watches her, carefully, before shaking his head.

Care, but do not love; help, but do not get attached.

Big joke.

Because Finnick still has a weak spot for (weak) sweet things.

(He wonders if President Snow knew, when he sent them to the same appointment, how hard it would be to _not_ care for something so broken.)

A bitter laugh leaves his lips. Finnick Odair does not have the luxury to care; it puts him at too much risk. Mags cups his cheeks in her hands, leaning up to kiss his cheek softly. Worn hands ruffle his hair. She motions for him to retrieve her sweet tea glasses.

He is not really certain who just won out, in this conversation.

_But then, he never does really win at anything, does he?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soo this posting is super-short (I know, nothing super exciting here but!), it's likely to be followed up by some longer chapters tomorrow night. and yeah. hope you enjoy, and thank you for reading! <3


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well, lemme tell you, Odair- ou pa konnen kaka."  
> (in which being strong and caring both suck equally.)

He is laying out in the sandy grass that is his backyard when he hears a knock on his front door. He sighs.

Clearly, it is not Mags, and he dreads interacting with anyone but her. It has been a month since they returned home; and another three weeks since he delivered the cookies in a basket to the Cresta’s abode. Mags has left him notes, twice left him his own basket full of cookies. Once, she came over as he ate dinner, and it had been difficult to persist, indifferent, in the face of her hard-set glare. She had left, without another word, and he got the gist of why she had come. That still, however, had failed to prompt him into action.

Inaction and apathy are just so damn easy to achieve, where the heart and being hurt are concerned. Hurt is a disease, not just physical, but it infects the mind, too. There are already too many things to hurt Finnick, after all.

Unfortunately, his brooding is being interrupted. It is a shame.

 _Tap-tap-tap_ riddles his front door again.

He thinks, _If I ignore you, you’ll stop, right?_

The knocking persists. So much for that. He does not bother to neaten himself up, to brush the sand from his hair, or straighten out his clothing. He is smiling because the sea has taken him in, and he thinks little could shake this feeling even if-

On his front stoop stands the young woman with bronzed-blonde hair, skin deeply tanned, and eyes blue-green. She had lovingly hugged their newest Victor. He had tried not to let his mind take him away with her resemblance to his sister. Now the stranger is standing before him.

He freezes.

_(Her face is bruised and battered, sections of her clothing ripped off, hands burnt to ash-_

_“I’m afraid, Mr. Odair, that there was trouble this past week, back in District Four”-)_

“Hi,” the young woman offers quickly, clearing her throat. Her voice is thankfully so different from Mare’s. As is her apparent uncertainty. Mare had always been so self-assured. “I’m Aslin. Aslin Sibb.”

She hesitates. Finnick realizes how he must look. Who is this man and where in all of Panem is the Golden Boy? Finnick pulls his face into its mask, a comfortable defense that slides his mouth into a crooked grin.

“Nice to meet you, Aslin Sibb,” he lets the purr and roll of his tongue send a blush to the girl’s cheek. “What can I do you for?”

Aslin clears her throat again, offering her left hand. On her ring finger is tied the blue chord, the old District custom for couples who have not been officially wed.

“I’m Bo Cresta’s _fiyanse.”_

They both are from Pesca, then. She looks Waterside to him, but _fiyanse_ is a Pesca term, after all. The inland area in the District where farm-pools and canneries are located, Pesca is to the west, landlocked.

Pesca has matchmakers. Suggested partners court, usually have long engagements, sometimes waiting several years before wedding.

(In contrast, Mr. Odair had known Finnick’s mother a total of six weeks.

They were both Waterside, and had been in their mid-twenties.

 _“We weren’t children,”_ Finnick’s mother had said when asked. _“We wanted to get on with it.”)_

The young woman, Aslin, clears her throat.

“Pesca, huh?” Finnick wonders if he sounds as judgemental as he feels. He hopes he does.

_Better to keep out the riff-raff._

_“Wi,”_ Aslin affirms, stiffly.

Waterside has always been wealthier. Less tesserae are generally taken out by Waterside children, too. The class divide is apparent on a daily basis, but never so much as on Reaping Days. Most children reaped for the Games are from Pesca. Most  _volunteers,_ however, are from Waterside. Both Finnick and his sister had been trained at the Career Center. The Odairs had been able to afford that, even then. District Four’s Career Center is expensive, but most Waterside families can afford attendance. Few Pesca families can.

“Must be different, living here.” Finnick raises a brow.

Aslin shrugs.

“Could make out pretty well,” Finnick smirks. “Pretty girl like you. All the luxuries you’d never get there.”

Waterside’s wild fish can catch a higher price when sold to the Capitol canneries. They do not need to be subsidized by the Capitol in the way the canneries, and even the pond-farms are. Permits determine fishing quotas, and that is an expense, but it is still better than relying on the ponds or canneries. Annie’s family is Pesca, Mags mentioned. Pesca families usually take on other occupations- trinket shops, net shops, to make some extra money. Some, like Bo Cresta, join fishing crews on boats owned by Waterside families. They hardly make bank, compared to what the boat-owners profit. In hurricane season, it is far from safe; but it is more than what they will make at the pond-farms. And there are no Peacekeeper overseers, so long as they do not stray too far from the coastline.

“W-we live in Pesca.” Aslin’s her eyes are narrowed, and there is something defensive about it. “Annie and her Pa’re the only ones, here. Bo and I live with my parents. It’s less… pretentious.”

 _Less pretentious._ Finnick smirks.

Annie’s family had scraped by to afford her training, Mags mentioned on the train home. Her mama had grown up Waterside, Daran had contributed, but her pa was Pesca.

The escort asked if that means Annie is part fish. Only the stylist had laughed.

The Crestas had sold handmade nets to Waterside fishermen, to make ends meet. Annie used this skill in the arena, along with knife training she received from the training at Four’s Career Center.

(He thinks, _I’m glad I didn’t know her before._

Finnick Odair had come out a completely different person; surely, Annie Cresta had, too)

“Mr. Odair?” Aslin’s tentative tone pipes up.

Finnick shakes her hand, after a long pause. He would be embarrassed, but remembers that he is _the_ Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair has no shame.

“I need help, um… with Annie.” Aslin starts, words carefully chosen. “She needs help. Or- I do, with her.”

“Oh?” Finnick pauses. He has avoided helping so effectively. It has been wonderful. He has been selfish and apathetic and oblivious. And would prefer to continue to be all of the aforementioned, uninterrupted. “I could get Daran, or Mags-”

“I tried, _obviously._ They’re not home.”

 _'You weren't exactly my first option, Golden Whore,'_ goes unsaid.

Finnick hesitates. “You think I could help?”

“You _could.”_  Aslin’s tone is icy. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

A furrow appears in the young woman’s brow, her eyes narrowing. Finnick merely raises his brow. All at once, her words spew out, and it is a roller coaster, like trying to catch a rainbow, because each word drowns out the next, a mixture of Creel and regular.

 _“Gade-_ Annie’s family, okay? _Me **konnen** li._ Ever since her mama died, she’s not been the same, but she’d at least talk to me about it. She’s worse, since the Games. Bo and Pa, _yo ap soti tout jou paske yo ap konsa **estipid** -”_

“Woah, woah, slow down.” Finnick might know the basics of Creel, but it is not easy to follow Aslin’s in and out usage.

“They won’t accept anything from her!” Aslin continues, seemingly oblivious to Finnick’s confusion. “Bo won’t live off her, and I don’t want to, either, but, if we did, we would not have to work at all, they could be with her. Help her get better. A-and, Mr. Cresta! he’s afraid of her- _kèk nan lòt moun yo tou._ Mr. Cresta, _jis kache nan yon boutèy, tankou toujou._ Daran and Mags, _yo te--_ they try, _men panse ke yo te bay moute, paske yo pa ka fè l'_ **stop** -”

“Stop?” Finnick’s throat feels tight. “Stop what?”

Aslin’s lips hang opened. She grabs Finnick by the wrist, and proceeds to drag him towards where Annie and her father reside in Victor’s Village. It is quite amusing: Aslin Sibb is thin, muscles nothing to write home about, where Finnick is well-built. It feels as if he is getting dragged towards a whipping. He is reminded, again, of his sister.

_(“Just you wait until mother sees what you’ve done, Finnick Odair!”)_

They enter the house from the back and Finnick hears singing. Not the pleasant kind; it is choked, hoarse, and off-pitch. There is a pause in the song, as the screen door shuts behind them, and feet audibly scurry up the stairs. Aslin releases Finnick’s wrist, running up the stairs. Finnick follows, sees her struggling with a door.

“Annie?” Aslin calls, looking to Finnick in desperation. He does not respond, and the woman turns back to the door, rapping on it. _“Tanpri?_ Let me in.”

 _“Ale,_ please, Sissy.”

To their surprise, the door pops opened a bit, the sea-green eyes peering out is rimmed with red, underscored by purpley-blue bags. Red hair is all over the place, untamed. In just this sliver of her face, Finnick guesses what the problem is. She is in the middle of a breakdown, likely unable to sleep. Probably having nightmares, and knowing her, they carry into the day.

“Sissy, _regrèt,_ I c-”

Her words break off. Annie is staring at Finnick. Her eye widens, before she slams the door, audibly re-locks it. Finnick stops Aslin, before she can proceed to bang on the door.

“You have a hairpin?” he asks evenly, staring at the door handle.

“What?” Aslin stares at him like he has six heads. “Why?”

“Just-- please?”

Aslin huffs a concession, after a moment, going to her room, to rummage about. He presses his ear to the door, hears a quieter version of a children’s song. The words are jumbled, from what he remembers the lyrics to be:

_“There is a sea,_

_there is a sea,_

_deep in the dark,_

_deep in the dark,_

_where you can row,_

_where you can row,_

_along with me,_

_along with me;_

_And boat on the water, and the water in the sea,_

_and the sea in the hole, and the hole in the earth,_

_And the rowboat rows all around, all around,_

_and the rowboat rows all around.”_

“Annie.” he tries, soft, now, because he does not want to make her worse than she is. She pauses her singing, just as Aslin returns with the hairpin. “Annie, you hear me?”

Shuffling brings her, Finnick believes, to the other side of the door. Only instead of a verbal response, Finnick hears a series of tappings and scrapings. He stares at the door, before looking to Aslin.

“It’s code,” Aslin says flatly, rolling her eyes. “It’s what Bo uses, on the boats.”

“And?” Finnick prompts, frustrated.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Finnick starts, carefully trying to fiddle the pin into the lock without creating a lot of noise. He clears his throat, before speaking again. “Annie, do you know the one about the mermaid and the sailor?”

He is floundering, because he does not know what more to do and the pin is not quite working. He is afraid, if she hears him trying to break in, that she will put something in front of the door, to make it more difficult. That is what he _(had done)_ would do.

He hears the same tapped and scratched response to his question. He also hears Annie giggle, that breathy distance in it. Finnick glances to Aslin, who merely purses her lips.

“Could you sing that one for me?”

There is a pause, in which the pin slides just right, a click signifying the lock is cooperating. He thinks he hears her stepping away from the door as she begins to sing.

_“Sailor, come and swim with me,_

_take my hands, we’ll dive down deep,_

_A kiss shall mean your life to keep,_

_Deep and dark below the sea,_

_Oh, my sailor…”_

He thrusts the door opened. Annie is nowhere to be seen. He stands in the doorway, confused. Aslin rushes past him and reaches under the bed, pulling a dazed-looking Annie out. She looks… awful. Patches of her hair are  missing, and what is there is stuffed messily into a braid that seems to be falling apart at the seams. Her nails are worn to the nubs, patched up with bandages. Deep bags linger under her eyes, as he saw before.

Worst of all, though, are the healing slash marks that are on her wrists.

“Damnit!” the words cut and bite, unintentionally angry. “Are you an idiot, Annie?!”

Both girls look at him in silence. Annie shrinks, slumping into a crouch on the floor and humming the rest of the song. Aslin, on the other hand, narrows her eyes.

“You’ve got some nerve,” Aslin says sharply, her face contorting. “You don’t get to talk to her that way!”

“You’re the one wanted my help-”

“Yeah, _yon **mwa** de sa!_ you piece of-”

“A month ago? Weren’t you the one who said it _wasn’t a good-?”_

“Still not a good time, if you’re just gonna make her feel like _kaka.”_

“Fine!”

“Why don’t you just go shag-”

Annie suddenly makes a break for the door. Finnick grabs her from behind, wrapping his arms around her. She attempts to elbow him, limbs flipping and flailing. When her hits fall short of her own release, an inhuman shriek comes from her, and her nails begin to claw at herself. He takes both her wrists in his hands, crossing them across her chest and holding them firmly, as she whimpers, intermittent shrieks and incoherent Creel words mixed in. He does not know what else to do, and is too busy struggling to keep Annie contained.

Aslin rushes to a cabinet, retrieving a syringe and filling it from a glass bottle sitting on the nightstand. As soon as the young woman approaches where Finnick has Annie, the latter begins whimpering protests in Creel.

“Shh, shh,” Aslin’s face is pained as she brushes Annie’s sleeve up. “I need her left arm-- for the shot.”

Finnick pries one arm forward, hushing her when she protests, sobbing. Aslin carefully injects the needle into the waiting vein. Annie tries to dodge away, but Finnick holds the girl firmly until the entirety of the syringe has been injected. He keeps his arms around her as Aslin places a bandage over the needle-mark. Annie’s breathing begins to calm, while Aslin leaves the room to sanitize the syringe.

Muscles visibly slack. Annie is crying, still, but it is quiet.

Finnick finds his arms remain around her, though he is unsure if they should be. He has her arms crossed over her chest, letting go once she stills. Breaths are more even and gradually the sniffles dissipate, as do the tears. She stands where he had held her, as if frozen, before her hands drift up to her ears. She stands there, instead, in this pose, immobile and unresponsive to the call of gulls outside her opened windows, the wash of the water against the shore. The foghorn back in town blasts the noon break, to call the ship, cannery, and farm-pool workers in for lunch.

Annie is gone, he knows. He recognizes the signs, though he does not recall seeing her quite this out of it. There is no calling her back, and perhaps that is best. Perhaps, in a drug-induced haze, she will be all right; live in a world where innocence is not a commodity which can be bought and sold, where true love and fairy tales and kindness rule. He would like that world, but it would not be for him, not really; only for Annie, and he is all right with that.

Finnick leads her to the bed, guiding her to sit, keeping a hand on her back. He hesitates, before setting himself on the edge of the bed, next to her. Hands stay clamped over ears, and sea-green eyes shut the world out.

Aslin returns, hesitating before clearing her throat. “Thanks.”

Finnick nods, lips pursed tightly. It is ironic, but he finds himself poor at cracking jokes, under the circumstances. He should stay in character, he knows, but his mental exhaustion overrules his acting chops.

A tense silence is broken only when Aslin comes further into the room, kissing the top of Annie’s head. The blonde _(not Mare, not Mare, Mare Odair is dead, shut up, brain)_ does not look at Finnick.

“You can go, you know.” Aslin’s tone is flat, though her eyes flicker warily to the Golden Boy. “She’ll be asleep in about five minutes. I can handle it, from here.”

Finnick says nothing, although he carefully removes his touch from Annie.

“You've probably got things to do.” Aslin prompts.

“I don’t,” Finnick admits. Aslin snorts. “Is true. I have enough fish to last the week through. Mags has left me about as many cookies as I can handle-”

“Did you screw her?”

The question gives him pause; brings him back to reality.

“What?” Finnick snaps, his upper lip rising until he wears a sneer. “Screw who?”

“Annie.”

Finnick’s eyes narrow.

“You screwed her, in the Capitol.” Aslin’s words drip with disgust. “Didn’t you?”

“Why would you think-?”

“This episode of _Annie’s Flipped Shit?_ Brought to you after she got her monthly. She told me she wasn’t _pregnant,_ and to tell _Finnick.”_

“She said what?” Finnick tastes bile in his mouth, and he feels the rage stirring despite himself. Whether his anger is towards Annie, or Snow is debateable.

They are not meant to mention any of it to their families.

 _Annie shouldn’t have to deal with this,_ he thinks.

(The thought is fought off. She has to deal with this. She is a Victor.

Why can’t she just be like the rest of them and suck it up?

What makes Annie Cresta so damn special, anyway?)

They give the Victors pills, when they are in the Capitol, to prevent that sort of thing. Obviously, that is part of the information that failed to stick in Annie’s mind.

“You heard me.” Aslin ‘s jaw clenches. “So, yeah. I guess I could’ve seen it coming, slut like you-”

“Oh,” Finnick cuts her off, shark’s teeth with a vicious grin overtaking his feature. “You have no idea, darling.”

“I do, actually, and if you ever touch her like that again, you’ll be wearing your own damn balls-”

 _“Ou s-se bèbè.”_ a voice slurs. Annie’s head jerks up, she sighs. Her eyes remain shut as she leans her head against Finnick’s shoulder. “Stop?”

Aslin huffs, giving Finnick a look before she leaves the room. He hears Annie’s breathing slow, and is quite sure she is falling asleep on his shoulder, but he avoids looking at her face, at her eyes, to check. Instead, he watches her hands, still and resting, palms up, on her thighs. He eases the girl off of him, hesitating before adjusting her legs, ensuring they are on the bed as well. The hot breeze defeats the purpose of blanketing her, but he finds his touch lingering on her cheek. He ignores how her body feels light, too light, and how he wants to keep a hold on her, to keep her from the nightmares that he knows are on its way. Drugs cannot make nightmares disappear, Finnick knows from experience.

(But _if he could, if he could, if he could, he would…)_

Making sure her head is rested against the pillow, Finnick lingers, hand brushing her hair back from her face. There is a fresh line, pink likely will edge to red by later tonight, along her right cheek. Her lashes flutter, eyes peeling opened laboriously. She is staring at him-- into him, it seems. _Too much, too close._ It causes him to pull away, stand, and turn his back to her. She might say something to him, but Finnick pointedly ignores the girl.

_She is sweet and sad and helpless and broken._

He is no more able to fix her than break Snow’s grip over the country.

 _Mags you are an asshole for telling me to care,_ Finnick thinks.

Life is better without attachments, and when he sees Aslin on his way out, how her nerves are frayed, how she rushes to meet Bo Cresta at the picket fence of their yard as he returns; when he hears her telling Bo, ‘I can’t make her better, she won’t get better, she needs too much help, Bo!’ he is reassured.

It would be better to feel nothing at all.

Fuck feelings, fuck caring.

Fuck Annie Cresta.

_(You don’t really mean it, Finnick._

_You’re just jealous her family doesn’t treat her the way you were treated when you had breakdowns._

_You’re just jealous that she isn’t getting whipped, or having bottles thrown at her, for behaving like a child.)_

 

* * *

 

 

It does not last. He is uncertain whether that is unfortunate or not.

_“Rete isit?”_

Three days, five hours, and thirty minutes ago, Finnick had told himself it would be better to feel nothing at all. Two days, three hours, and two minutes ago, Mags had told him he was being selfish. One day, six hours, and fifteen minutes ago, Annie Cresta appeared on his doorway, said she was sorry for him losing his head, before she laughed until she cried, and he walked her home. Two hours, fifty minutes, and six seconds ago, Aslin appeared, again, on Finnick Odair’s doorstep and begged for help with her surrogate little sister. An hour ago, he cracked a joke, to which she had, again, threatened his manhood; but, a half-hour before that, they had come up to Annie's room, and she had seemed, after some coaxing, better. They have given Annie a small dosage. She is seated on the floor now, knees pulled to her chest, with her hair hiding her face.

"You're not going, Finnick, are you?"

The panicked, breathless question comes from Annie, whose hands have eased off of her ears, but now hang shakily in midair. She is swaying, slowly, back and forth, and her eyes are more hooded than before. The drugs, it seems, are beginning to have some impact, but have not hit her full-force. She is still breathing more or less evenly, but her eyes are wide, filled with tears.

Lashes are fluttering as she stares at Aslin, who in turn narrows her gaze. Finnick notices a pattern to the youngest girl’s blinking, and quirks a brow between the two females.

“Odair, get out-”

“No,” Annie shakes her head. Her hand reaches out, holding Finnick’s shakily. “I… want to talk to him.”

“Absolutely not-”

“I want to.” Annie stills, lashes fluttering.

Finnick wonders if this is the code Aslin had referred to, or just Annie going distant. Either way, Aslin hesitates, giving Finnick a warning look, before leaving the room. She leaves the door opened a crack behind her.

Finnick stands, putting his hand in his pocket. He retrieves the hairpin, placed in these same slacks days before. The _(boy)_ man begins to play with it as he paces the floor. Bored after only a moment with it, Finnick glances over at his companion. Her eyes have shut, but she is not rocking, nor do her hands cover her ears. Finnick returns to Annie's side, sets himself on the floor, next to her.

"She could've at least thanked me this time." Finnick jokes, mostly to himself.

Annie does not acknowledge him.

After what feels like hours, her eyes flutter opened, distant.

“I can’t tell them.” her voice does not pose a question, but there is a desperation there that he wishes he could help her shake off. It catches him, slightly off-guard. “I remember doing… and you were-- with the ropes and, was that- did that happen?”

“It happened,” he murmurs.

“You tied me up?” She rocks back and forth. He cannot bring himself to respond. “I’m a fish in a net.”

 _So am I,_ he thinks but instead he gulps and she disappears into her own mind.

He lets her. She survived the Games. She watched twenty-three children die, brutally. She watched her partner get decapitated. She nearly starved, been dehydrated, sick, and trying to avoid a similar fate. She had to drown other children so that she could live. Then she was tied up and high, and lost her virginity to strangers.

Five years ago, he had done worse than curl up on the floor.

“And I… can’t tell them.”

Finnick does not respond. Mags and Daran went through this, before Finnick’s appointment with the newest Victor. Annie does not always remember. Mags said as much, back when Finnick first approached her about their scheduled foursome, but now he sees it himself. Annie’s mentors explained what is expected, what the envelope and names mean. It does not stick in her mind.

The younger Victor nods to herself, pressing her palms against her eyes and sighing. He studies her wrists. The scars are deeper in some places, but none are fresh. Most are scabbed over, even the ones he notices on the back of her neck, and on her upper arms. They have healed, more or less. He can tell that, in the three days, five hours, and thirty minutes since he has last been here, no more scars or scabs or slashes have appeared. This pleases him. 

(This is their first conversation, the first they have actually had since coming home;

the first, where they are giving and taking, not just Annie taking Finnick's giving)

“What happened?” he motions to the marks on her wrists. He is careful not to touch the scars, instead keeping his hands to himself, using them to reshape this hairpin.

“I thought…,” she swallows, before glancing at him warily. “I saw chains, Finnick. I had to get them off.”

Finnick does not respond. He feels a lump in his throat, and finds all he can give the girl is an understanding nod.

“I didn’t mean to. They think I did.”

“When I won,” he starts. He clears his larynx _(wishing it did more good to his soul, wishing he could cough away sins and stains of foreign, unwelcomed hands)._ “After, I took my head, tried to put it through the glass, back… there.” The Capitol does not need to be named. “I kept smashing it, til I passed out. Spent two bonus days in Remake. Mags was ready to kill me.”

Annie’s stare is penetrating, and intent. She is focused, and it would be a relief, were it not a focus on him, an inspection of the Golden Boy from District Four  _(the Golden Whore)._

“Did you mean to?” she asks, finally.

“I thought I did.” his voice breaks and he cringes. He does not mean for the second half of his thought come out; “Sometimes I think I want to.”

“I-I don’t.” she takes a deep breath, blinking rapidly. “I don't. I just... forget things. I thought it’d get better but. They work. I lose track of-”

She breaks off, setting her eyes on her knees. She curls them tighter to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, protectively.

“But I don’t want to be dead, honest. I think I am, sometimes, but I don’t want to be. I want to be here. I want… this to be real.”

“Do they know that?” he asks, twisting the ends of the pin.

Their eyes meet. She looks away first. Her fingers worry the edge of her loosely braided hair.

“You should tell them, Annie.” Finnick says the words quietly. "Not... not everything. But tell them, they should know, how hard you fought. How you want to be here."

_How hard we all still fight._

He is a hypocrite, and tries not to wince at the irony of his advice. He never told his family about waking up from nightmares and thinking he was dead, about wanting to actually be dead. His family had been different, though. They would not have wanted to hear about their Golden Boy being weak. He had been different, too. He hid himself better. Not from Mags, of course, but then she would understand. Finnick would hide his scars and his fears, and the threats, and the world of pain that haunted his mind.

Annie’s mind will not allow that luxury. Better to tell her family something, even just half-truths, rather than nothing at all.

“They don’t…”

She trails and begins to scratch at her neck. He takes her hand, pulls it away to stop her from aggravating the barely-healed scars. She cringes. She holds off a moment, before continuing where she paused.

 _“Understand._ I forget if things happened, or if they didn’t. If I’m there, I don’t want to die, and that’s when I- think I’m fighting them. I see Dom, and his head talks, and they’re trying to kill me but- but, it’s not real. And I’m here and they’re saying I’m doing things… I don’t mean to. _Yo pè pou me.”_

Finnick holds her hand, giving it a squeeze that she does not return. Finnick leans back, eyes glancing around the room as they both go quiet. There are a few paintings, nothing profession, but amateur depictions of Annie. He guesses these are ones her father has made. Apart from the drawings, little differentiates it now from the Capitol model with which she had been presented.

“Did you try the rope?”

Annie’s eyes pop wide, and he realizes what that must have sounded like.

“No, no- have you tried doing knots, like you did before we came home?”

A quiet, “No,” retorts, almost inaudible.

“It helps, right?”

“Right,” she nods.

“So does swimming,” he admits quietly. “If you’re up for that.”

She does not respond, and he wonders how she feels about being underwater now. The arena had flooded, after all. He has been caught in riptide before, he knows what that feels like; the undercurrent, the suffocation. Finnick shifts, to see her staring at his hands. He has forgotten about the hairpin, the one he was attempting to reshape.

“Can I?” she asks, motioning to the little piece.

When he lets her have the now bent-up piece, she gets to work immediately. They sit together on the floor, while she works the malleable metal. When she finishes, she smiles shyly, slipping it back into his palm. It is the silhouette of a scalloped shell. It is hardly perfect, but he gets the drift.

“For the anchor,” she says, gently nudging his shoulder with hers. Her head is tilted to one side, seeking his response; “You did that, right?”

“Right.”

He nudges her back, and they do this a few times before she laughs, the one that _tut-tut-tuts,_ so he knows it is real. She rests her cheek on her knees, and looks about to say something. Then they hear the door downstairs slam, and a loud sea shanty, filled with dirty limericks, is bellowed throughout the house. Annie freezes, blinking rapidly. Finnick recalls what she said on the train, about her papa drinking too much. He has heard Mr. Cresta, always singing or talking too loudly, drunken and sounding idiotic. 

“Stay here.” he murmurs; she looks too confused to protest. On his way to the stairs, he grabs Aslin before she goes down to Mr. Cresta. “I’d like to talk to him.”

“Back off, Odair.”

“Please, just stay with Annie?”

“What're you, Golden Boy to the rescue?” Aslin shoves him. “Piss off."

When Mr. Cresta stumbles into sight at the foot of the stairs, he looks even worse than he sounds. Finnick can see the resemblance, now, the way the eyes are distant, the way the sea-green seems far and off-shore between long-lashed lids.

“Aslin!” The man struggles up the first two steps, but slips down, hacking out a cough. “Aslin, y’all’re here, _bay vye granmoun gason yon men?”_

Aslin and Finnick start down the stairs and the man whistles.

“Ho-ho, Golden Boy hisself! Looky here!”

Aslin continues down, helping Mr. Cresta up and sliding his arm around her shoulder. She glances up at Finnick, raising an eyebrow.

“Never thought 'e would show up in our house!” Mr. Cresta cackles. As they near Finnick on the stairs, Mr. Cresta reaches out, pinches Finnick’s cheek with just enough extra pressure to set his jaw to clench.

“You mean Annie’s house, don’t you?” Finnick waits until Cresta has an advantage of uphill. Better to give the drunk a fighting chance, right? “You’re just here for the digs, ain’t that it?”

“Piss off, Odair!” Aslin snaps, she shoves him, so that he stumbles down two steps. "We don't need you here right now.

“Nah, ledim speak, Az. See, he thinks he knows somethin’ I don’t.” Mr. Cresta sneers. He pulls himself away from Aslin, leaning his weight against the stair rail. He drifts on his feet, and for a moment, more of Annie, her lost expression of grief, shows in her father. “Well, lemme tell you, Odair- _ou pa konnen kaka.”_

“Finnick.”

Annie is hovering just inside the doorway to her room, eyes wide, barely focusing, and hands hanging at her sides. The three others turn to look at her. Mr. Cresta immediately stumbles over to wrap his daughter in his arms. Over his shoulder, Annie blinks at Finnick.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” her question is a whisper.

When Aslin gives him a look, Finnick takes the hint for what it is worth, and leaves.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is weird. and long.  
> thankyouthankyou for reading! comments/etc are appreciated! <3


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow isn't always tomorrow, and breakfast doesn't always mean you've been fasting.

_‘Tomorrow,’_ to Annie, is apparently three o'clock in the morning. It is also one week from the last day that Finnick has seen her.

He might have felt guilty, not going to check up on her after their conversation. Aslin’s clear overwhelming frustration, along with her seeming assumption that giving Annie shots is the only solution to make her better should weigh at least somewhat on his mind. The Crestas, it seems, are waiting around for Annie to miraculously be who she had been, before the Games, rather than accept that she can never be that person again. She is damaged goods, and they are waiting for their love and tender care to repair the scars in her mind. Someone should tell them no one really decent ever wins. No one ever really wins, without giving something up.

The fact remains, Finnick had been dismissed by _Annie,_ not the other way around. Perhaps she does not want him around. Perhaps that is for the best.

Mags has not come to see him in the last week, although he has woken up several times to baskets and notes and pickled sardines on his front stoop. He knows she has an eye on him.

This new disruption, at three o’clock in the morning, is not bold and unapologetic, as Mags would be. And Mags is sleeping now, anyway _(the woman does love her sleep)._ No, instead, the intrusion comes abruptly, in the pre-dawn dark that has settled over a stickily hot coastal night.

It comes when Victor’s Village is quiet with nighttime. The sea-salt of the air has whispered, breathless, against Finnick's wide-opened bedroom windows. He has been lulled, after each horrified start, back to an uneasy slumber.

Finnick wakes to the sound of the lock to his front door being picked.

(He always locks himself in at night, even here, at home.)

Quiet singing and the click-ding of pots and pans down in his kitchen. Had he not heard the familiar voice singing the lyrics to the mermaid and sailor song, he probably would have unmounted the decorative oar from above his bed, to confront the intruder.

Instead, he pads downstairs, blinking into the bright lights of the kitchen and staring. Annie’s hair is combed. A neat red braid, frizzy but kempt, drapes down her back. She wears a white dress, though it looks meant to be a nightgown. She does not acknowledge him when he enters, instead continues singing and mixing something in one of the large bowls Finnick hardly ever uses.

“Hello.” He expects her to jump, but instead she glances over and smiles.

“Hello.” Annie sprinkles some spices _(I had spices in my house?)_ into the batter, before flicking a handful of water on the pan. It sizzles slightly. After pouring out the cream-colored batter, Annie glances over her shoulder, at Finnick. A childish glee lights her eyes; “Do you have bacon?”

“No.” Finnick smiles, and it widens when she huffs and rolls her eyes at him. “Am I supposed to?”

Annie shrugs, twirling a metal spatula in her hand. Her looking happy should not make him feel happy in response; but it does all the same. She has broken in to his house, raided his kitchen, and is making casual use of all his utensils. He is not exactly sure how to feel about this, but feeling happy to see her is probably not appropriate. Amusement pretty well covers it, and at least his amusement is understandable. Finnick hops on the counter adjacent to the stove, studying her. The bags still linger under her eyes, though there is a focus to them, now, when their eyes meet. He leans his head back against the upper cabinets, glancing around. She has wiped down the counters, he notes, and straightened everything up.

She waits for bubbles to appear on the surface of the batter, humming quietly.

“Can’t _sleep,”_ she pops the ‘p’ in the word, watching the pan thoughtfully. “Making things helps.”

Finnick opens his mouth, but she continues.

“He’s not bad,” she states simply. She must gage Finnick's confusion, because she clears her throat, beginning to elaborate; “Papa drinks but h-he’d never yell at us, even. He would never hurt anyone, not unless he was trying to protect us. Gets sick, or loud, or sad but… wouldn’t hurt us.”

“Could, though.” Finnick clears his throat, eyes lingering on the griddle.

“Anyone could…” her voice is quiet. Annie shakes her head, testing out the spatula and flipping the griddlecake before humming slightly. “He apologized. Wants to meet you. Well, _again.”_

Finnick nods. He notices a speck of flour on her cheek, reaches over and nudges at it with his thumb. Annie laughs, _tut-tut-tut,_ and he grins. She sticks her tongue out. He leans away, pulls out plates and holds one out as she slides the griddlecake onto it.

“That’s yours.” Annie is smiling, but it is tight, and her eyes seem distant. She begins pouring out another one. “Mama’s recipe.”

Finnick tastes a bite. Spices, salt and buttermilk hit his tongue. It melts in his mouth, delicate and light. Before he knows it, he is looking for another.

“These are good.” Finnick holds a hand over his belly. “From now on: only these, every meal.”

“You’d get sick.” Annie murmurs with a light _tut._

Silence comes over them. Finnick seeks to break it. He is selfish, likes to see her smile and laugh. He likes there to be conversation. He wants to draw her out more.

(He thinks, _Maybe I can make her smile, since I don’t want to kill her_

_Maybe that would make up for all that the Capitol will put her through._

_Maybe I can help her and not make things worse.)_

“Mama Cresta was a genius,” Finnick declares, grinning.

“She was smart, Bo says.” Annie watches the griddle intently. “He remembers more. Papa won’t talk, about her. I have to force it, and I don't like..."

 _'I don't like force,'_ but the word hits them both too close to home. Annie's eyes shut for a time before they bat opened, avoiding Finnick's gaze.

"She liked to make things. We did nets, together. I hid behind the counter-- Papa didn’t want me selling things, but he and Bo weren’t home, Mama wanted me to come to sell. She said it’s important, it’d come in handy. But papa and Bo never…let me, they want me to focus on training books. Wanted. Even though I was still little--”

She breaks off again, hand covering her lips.

“This-- I’m rambling,” Annie murmurs, a sigh escaping before she shakes her head. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Finnick gives her a smile. It must be reassuring because she smiles back. “I don’t mind. Honestly.”

_(He isn't even lying, which is the strangest part.)_

There is the sudden glow of a search-light, out on the water, drifting across the horizon. A Peacekeeper night patrol, they know, with blue and white lights blazing against the black of night. They watch it as it drifts from east to west, until it disappears from their line of sight.

Annie waits a moment before continuing.

“She rented nana’s house out for more than our house’s rent, because Papa’s jobs don’t- _didn’t_ hold. He used to paint, in the shipyards, b-- he's not allowed, by the time I'm- _was_ little. Dunno know why. Bo might know why, but I dunno. Mama fixed things in the canneries, too. Machines. She liked machines. At least, I think.”

“You think?” Finnick prompts.

“I keep wondering about…”

Annie trails, and Finnick waits for her to bring herself back. She does, after a time, nodding.

“He misses-- makes him sad. I look like her, I guess.”

“How old were you?” Finnick asks, unsure if it is wise, but she brought it up.

“Five?” Annie frowns. He can see the confusion, watches as she tries to calculate time and memory along a solid road into the past. “No… h-had a party, our house? Then, after?" Her lips hang, parted, before the last word is emphasized with more enthusiasm than he would have expected.  ** _"Six!”_**

“Six,” he repeats.

That age marks nothing special for him, that he can recall; maybe a split lip, or a broken bone.

Finnick has almost always thrown himself headfirst into chaos

_(usually bruised himself in the process, if not worse)._

He certainly could not recall going to a funeral before age eleven, and even then, it was for the only grandma he had ever known. It had not exactly been sad, more of a party. His Granny Odair had been alive for longer than most, after all, and had her son and daughter well past when most mothers were able.

Finnick is still the only son the family can show for his generation. Everyone else had been female: his sister, and all of his aunt’s children. Auntie and cousins, he has lost track of in the years since his Victory. His sister, and father, well, they can be accounted for. So can his mother. That is part of Finnick’s suspicion of Mr. Cresta, because drink impacts darling Mrs. Odair in extremely unpleasant ways.

“Six, mhm,” Annie hums again, a frown appearing as she flips the griddlecake. “Bo thinks I drowned it-- I forget, but, I guess I made myself forget other things, even before.”

“Like what?” it is Finnick’s turn to frown, and when she glances at him, seeming to look right through him, his frown deepens out of concern. “What does he think you’ve forgotten?”

Annie laughs abruptly, that haze to it, before her hand covers her mouth.

“Sorry,” but it is distant, this time, and muffled.

Finnick worries, instinctually.

He worries what it is she sees when she does that, because it must not be a hot stovetop with a griddlecake sizzling _(because he knows the things he sees in his own mind; because he hates that this girl might have the same sort of ghosts clawing at her)_. He slides slowly off the counter; slowly, because he fears she might be triggered, into thinking he is coming at her. He turns the stove’s knob off, placing both hands on her shoulders. She is going away, despite herself. He does not understand: she was here, she had been here, and talking to him, and grinning and smiling, and it does not make any sense. Words are weapons, against Annie Cresta, and Finnick must be sick in the head, for the envy that exists unacknowledged in the back of his head. He is not sure where she is, or what she is thinking; what she sees or hears. Maybe he can just hold her, until she is back. That is not enough, so he tries to see if he can bring her back.

(Misery loves company, after all, and he'd rather she were here with him.)

“Annie?”

“Mama woke me… early.” her voice is as disconnected as the look in her eyes. “It’s red like lipstick she said to row now. Didn’t have-- didn’t make sense, if we are rowing, don’t you want Papa and Bo? But she doesn't. We were borrowing a rowboat 'cause we are going t--to a meeting?”

A hand covers one ear. Finnick tries not to wince, but lets her do it all the same. Her eyes are squinting, as if this will somehow bring the words and memories into focus.

“And they- talk-- things don’t make sense. They said thirteen? A-and candies, they let me have some. They're sweet. We were on their boat, mama said not to listen…”

“Why didn’t she want you to listen?”

“I don’t know!” the frustration cracks her voice at the end, hands slamming suddenly against the countertop with a fury Finnick has never seen in her. It is gone, a second later, when both hands clamp over her ears, instead, eyes shutting. “Was that real? Did that happen?”

“I don’t know, Annie-”

“I can’t remember, Finnick, was it real? I don’t-”

“It’s all right, you don’t need to,” he murmurs. Her face presses against his chest. He can feel her breath hot, even through the cloth, muffled as she tries to regain composure. Her breathing is uneven, nearing hyperventilation. He slides his arms around her, hugs her tightly to himself. “We don’t need to talk about it. We don’t need to remember. Just stay here.”

She nods, but he still feels her chest heaving. _Panic attack._ He knows them, from himself. He keeps a hand on her back, rubbing up and down until her breathing begins to ease. He pulls away slightly, checking to see if she is really back here, really present with him. Sea-green eyes are opened, but struggle to focus on anything around her.

Finnick puts an arm around her shoulders, sits her down at the table. Her hands stay over her ears and she begins rocking back and forth. Finnick sets the kettle, fills it and places it on the stove. She likes tea. He does not know what good that actually does, but it is all he has.

“Drew sharks.” her voice is a whisper. _“Mama te resevwa tire._ They left her in the water.”

 _Mama te resevwa tire._ Finnick stills as he understands her words. _Shot,_ her mama had been shot. Annie swallows, eyes on the floor. She turns, settles arms on the table, forehead nesting on her arms. Finnick stares, and it takes all of his mental capacity to shake himself out of his stupor.

_(I can't deal with this, I can't do this, please leave, Annie, I can't help you)_

He goes to her, hand on her back, though more tentative this time.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep on me.” he forces a laugh, but his voice strains in his attempt at sounding lighthearted. He pauses, before taking her hand. _“Vin sou,_  let’s get you home.”

“Can’t I stay?”

There is a childish plea in her voice, and he is tempted to automatically agree. Instead, he shakes his head.

_(Please forgive me, I need you to get the hell out of here)_

_“Tanpri?”_

“It’s not a good idea.” Finnick’s finality must get through, because she nods.

They walk home just as the foghorn in town belts out for the farm-pool and cannery workers; for the fishermen, too, though they are not permitted to actually leave the harbor until after dawn. The world is waking up. Finnick is glad for the absence of others as they reach Annie’s front door.

She heads inside, but stops, turning to look at him with a furrow in her brow. She is looking at him with something he does not want to see. 

_Trust._

He thinks he might get ill.

“I made you breakfast.” it is a statement, but she is asking for confirmation.

“You did,” he swallows over a lump in his throat. “It was delicious. “

“I’m a good cook.” it could be self-confidence, except she sounds uncertain. “Papa wants to meet you again?”

He hears the invitation in it, the repeat from earlier, and his smile feels more genuine, at least.

( _This isn't right,_ he thinks.  _t_ _his shouldn’t **feel** right._

_you shouldn't want to like this girl, Finnick, it isn't right.)_

“We'll make dinner, sometime.” and he will, because it feels so good to plan something so boringly normal.

 _'Sometime'_ could be anytime, after all, and _'we'_ could be anyone.

A smile, brighter, now, lightens her expression. “G’night, Finnick.”

“Good morning,” Finnick corrects.

His hands slide in his pockets as his nails press into the inner flesh of his palm.

_(No renmen li, Finnick.)_

_Damn it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hump days are dumb days (for me, at least!), so here's something to make it less rough!   
> thankyouthankyou for reading <3


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One (stumbling) step at a time.  
> (or, how grain makes things better and worse.)

A hand graces Finnick’s skin. He starts, because no one has touched him (not like he is used to) in the past two months, since he has been home. With the Tour drawing closer each hour, he knows that will change soon. His vacation is almost over. Nerves are on edge. His gaze snaps down to the petite redhead he finds at his side.

“Dance with me?” a shy question follows, smile matching Annie’s tone as she cocks her head to one side.

He wonders if she knows she has caught him in an absentminded daze.

_(He wonders if she knows how dirty he is.)_

“Maybe later, darling.”

Finnick strokes thumb along the smoothed skin of her palm. It is a learned habit- the _darlings,_ the _dears;_ and those delicate, fleeting touches to satiate the gluttonous (Capitol women always love little flirtations) and leave them wanting more. It is only when Annie’s hand tugs away, forcefully, that he realizes the action.

 _That doesn’t belong here, Finnick,_ his mind chides.

“Sorry.”

“’S’okay,” Annie whispers. She sways left then right in place. Arms cross her stomach, hands tight around her own opposing upper arms. “Later? Promise?”

Finnick snorts, and does not elaborate.

_The cameras already have me. I won’t give them more than they need._

The first grain delivery has arrived with pomp and circumstance.

A camera crew had arrived before. Two sets of makeup teams, plus District Four’s escort, had preceded even _that._ All the Victors are scrubbed clean, scars and marks disappearing. Annie’s hair is filled in, seamlessly; except, of course, to Finnick. He has had hair plugs after violent appointments more times than he cares to own to. He knows that slightest color variation denoting the false locks. But it is not exactly as if he plans to tell anyone.

Finnick had found the newest Victor speaking gibberish only this morning in his backyard. So it is strange to see her here, now, really present. The focus in her eyes, the way she is watching him, is near unsettling. The fit had passed (the fits always pass, some just quicker than others). The half-doses of medicine are helping her get through this, although she does still look tired. She is well; better than her post-interviews, and even better than she has been in the past few weeks.

And Finnick has just insulted her, rejected her. It could trigger something, he realizes; he is never certain what will set her off.

_Good._

_(No, Finnick, bad. If Annie messes this up, Snow will take it out on her, like he always does.)_

_No, **good** : _ _make her feel awful enough to trigger an episode_

_mess her up as much as possible_

_make her useless to the Capitol’s bullshit._

_(maybe they'll leave her alone)_

_No renmen li,_ Mags said.

It’s easy not to love someone who’s in their own world, after all.

Annie slips away, not looking back at him. He watches her, smirking when he realizes she is barefoot. The stylist had been insistent that Annie wear heels, _‘to make her stand out’_ in the films the crews are taking.

District Four children can go weeks without wearing shoes; it is only natural. In that, there is no barrier between Pesca and Waterside. Finnick almost wishes he could get away with going barefoot _(with being honest, with owning up to his trauma)._ Annie has that luxury, in a way; if she is disobedient, they can just defend her by saying she is crazy.

Annie is doing well, considering the crowd. He watches her greet and smile shyly to well-wishers. Earlier, the girl had actually shaken the hands of actual _strangers._ District Four's escort had positively beamed. Finnick would be proud, as well. Only he knows what it means: if Annie Cresta is well enough to perform tonight, she will be expected to do that through next year, and possibly after.

Performances are not just for the masses.

Performances are for President Snow.

Performances are auditions, for Snow’s buyers.

Finnick masks his own thoughts, from himself, taking a drink. One of the other Victors _(what’s-his-face, with the scar they let him keep marking from his forehead to upper chest)_ takes Annie’s hand, pulls her into the center of the dance floor. The music is fast, as are the dancers, and Finnick finds his eyes lingering on Annie’s bare feet as she nimbly twirls and whirls. She is laughing and radiant, eyes bright, skirt spinning up above her knees. The smile which forms on Finnick’s lips feels foreign. He forces himself to look away.

_It isn’t real._

None of it is. The celebration is a mask, as are the Victors. The mask to conceal their chains.

 _They’re trying to fool you, Annie._ Fingers clench tighter around his glass. He pulls away, smirking and nodding and winking while his lungs begin to tighten.

He finds the path to the door too far, too far, _long narrow hallways, shallow breaths--_

By the time Finnick stumbles to the rear of Justice Square, into the fresh night air unencumbered by the heat of others, he is hyperventilating, visions assaulting him.

_His blood, Annie’s blood, Mare’s and Mags’ and corpses piled high--_

_outside the windows of the Training Center all he can see is bodies--_

_packed like meat, corpses of children scream, caught in the death-grips of their final moments--_

_maces and axes and water, water, water that is muddied by decaying flesh and bloodied bones--_

_and they’re screwing him from behind as he screws a pale scrawny form with the sea fading from her eyes--_

_(No renmen li, Finnick.)_

“Finnick?”

_Male voice. Not Annie._

“No… not Annie.”

_I said that aloud, didn’t I?_

“Yes, you did.” a hand on his shoulder grips him, turns him so that he is face to face with Mr. Cresta, the elder. Sea-green eyes _(not Annie don’t bring Annie here, she’s dead, she’s dying)_ make a suspicious inspection, before the older man clears his throat. “Ki sa?”

Mr. Cresta’s hand remains on Finnick. Whether it is restraint or support, the latter cannot decide. Bright green eyes look away, hands gripping the railing of the steps before his weight brings him down to the top step. His head is foggy, chest heaving, and _he can’t he can’t he can’t--_

“Talk to me, Odair.”

Head is in Finnick’s palms and he is laughing, shaking his head. His body feels shaky, muscles weak; he is always so damned weak.

I screwed your daughter and she thought she was pregnant and now she’s going to have to go on a tour which will end in her getting screwed for a week straight, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.

“Odair.” Mr. Cresta’s eyes narrow. For the first time in the (few) times that Finnick has seen the man,  he is sober. Mr. Cresta shakes Finnick, suddenly, and the younger man wonders, if this is how he treats Annie when she is out of it. _“Sa ki nan problèm,_ boy?”

“It’s not real.”

The words leave without his permission, and Finnick catches himself before he can make it worse. He slams a fist against the railing, pulls himself up and tries to walk away.

To Finnick’s surprise, Mr. Cresta shoves Finnick up against the side of the Justice Building with force. Finnick tries to fight him off, but half-allows himself to be kept with the man’s elbow pressing his neck.

“What are you saying?” the voice is sharp, vicious. “What are you doing with my daughter?”

Finnick wonders, for a moment, whether or not he had missed Jobe Cresta’s turn in the Arena-- he certainly would have made a fierce competitor.

“Oh, what _aren’t_ I doing?” Finnick sneers. “Just as crazy as her, are ya?”

He manages to give the older man a good punch to the stomach. Mr. Cresta stumbles back against the metal railing. Finnick stands, fists clenching, but back still against the wall. Both men stare at one another, chests struggling, uncertainty slowing their interactions to the point of inaction.

“Think I don’t know the Capitol keeps you on a pretty little leash?”

“Only the best for me.” Finnick’s disgust turns into a shark-like smile, and a cocky grin that does not carry to his eyes. “Jealous you’ll never get everything we will?”

“Piss off,” Mr. Cresta hisses, slow steps easing towards Finnick. He plants his index finger at the center of Finnick’s chest, eyes small slits, upper lip twitching in anger. “She ain’t gonna play this game anymore, you get me?”

Finnick’s brow quirks, a question (a sarcastic slur, actually) on his lips, when Mr. Cresta turns and heads, quickly, back towards the square where the celebrations are ongoing. The words take some time to settle, a moment too long, before Finnick understands, and begins racing after Mr. Cresta.

* * *

 

He cursed the Capitol on television.

“Fuck the Capitol!”

(Annie had gone into a panic attack, and her pa had dragged her all the way home.)

It had been live streaming, and Jobe Cresta had told the Capitol to go fuck itself. He punched the assistant stylist, and shoved the escort, when they tried to stop him taking his daughter home.

“Fuck this shit!”

Early the next morning, Finnick stays underwater for what he hopes is hours (in reality, it’s only a few minutes). He wants to pretend this is still just a bad dream.

Because he knows what happens now, when Victors do not play their part.

She is going to suffer. They will get to her by punishing her family.

_Aslin and Bo and Jobe… and Annie--_

He pictures her bleeding, crying, pictures her in a pile of corpses, _getting screwed from behind by President Snow._

Why can’t she and her father behave?

(Maybe there is something in the water on the other side of town.

Maybe this is why there’s only ever been one other Pesca Victor.)

Finnick blocks his doors that night, with chairs; leaves her a note that tells her her to stay the hell away from him. He writes another a week later; one that ends with, _‘You’re crazy and I hate you.’_

_Annie Cresta is going to suffer._

Finnick Odair wants no part of any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops.  
> thankyouthankyou for reading. <3  
> (stay tuned for more~ plz don't hate meee.)


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victims of disobedience can never run very far.

When you grow up in District Four, you see storms coming.

It is one of the first things that people here teach their children: how waves look if there is a hurricane offshore, how clouds change when thunder and lightning approach, what it means when the wind picks up and the clouds are racing; which birds leave with the change of season, and what part of the District is best to seek shelter in should the waves be too high. They know what time of year the jellies will gather offshore, and what season the dead ones will wash up onto the beaches.

It is like President Snow’s whim, though his is consistently cruel, where the weather is, comparatively, just plain consistent.

It serves to reason that Finnick should have realized, a month before Annie is scheduled to depart on her Victory Tour, that all of the signs point to an attachment he will not easily sever.

He thinks he misses Annie cooking him breakfast. He thinks he misses how she took care of him, but he chalks this up to being poor company for himself.

Mr. Cresta, according to Mags, has begun drinking beyond what he had before. Finnick almost wants to know, if Mags has heard from the Capitol. She never tells, and he is too much of a coward to actually seek out this truth. He tries not to care, when he sees Annie sitting out in the sun on the edge of the stone jetty. He tries not to notice, if and when she notices him, how she scurries like a little guppy back to her house, draws the curtains tight. He does not try to approach her.

_(Annie Cresta is going to suffer._

_But wasn’t that always going to be the case?)_

The Capitol does not call Finnick, nor send him envelopes or roses. There are no mandatory viewings, and so, Finnick tries his best to ignore the television. He has no choice, really, because he is expected to keep up with the gossip, and trends.

(That is the part which Snow has never had to remind Finnick of; never officially assign:

to pay attention to what is happening.

Finnick is nothing if not observant.)

The television mentions Annie. Those times are few and far between, until the announcements are made for the dates of the Victory Tour. Some on the screen have speculated that, perhaps, it had not been the Arena at all, which drove Annie Cresta mad. Perhaps madness had already existed, below the surface; the Arena simply drew it out for all to see.

They show select sections of her Games. Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman are anticipating the Victory Tour, anticipating a Victor who, Finnick knows, can never be who these people seek. He watches it, because he has not seen it before. He wants to see if he can recognize the exact moment when Annie Cresta had broken.

These are the ‘highlights’: _her first kill,_ a weakling girl from Twelve who Annie caught in the throat with the flick of a knife; _her first co-kill_ with her allies, when Annie, and the boy from District Two, had gutted the boy and girl from three while they were caught in one of her nets; _her face,_  in grief and loss and horror, when Dom’s blood splattered across it (when the head rolled to rest between her feet). The favorite, by far, though, is the image of her shrieking at the dead corpses she has drowned beneath the floodwaters. Her tears, her screams, her talking to things which only she can see, they delicately edit out. They only show madness where it accentuates her Victory. They edit out her breakdown during the highlights’ review; as well as that on the stage. Finnick did not know that she sobbed after Snow crowned her.

He thinks he spots where she broke. It is before Dom’s death.

Annie Cresta had not snapped at her partner’s beheading, not exactly.

It is before, when innards drape out like coils, and _the boy from Two rips them out and throws them around her shoulders--_

 _Annie Cresta is going to suffer,_ Finnick reminds himself.

 _(No renmen li,_ Mags croaks inside his head.

Stay the hell away from this girl, you moron.)

Mags hosts a dinner one night, not only for the Victors but their families, too. Finnick refuses the invitation.

Only then, Mags calls in the late afternoon, saying her head is bothering her, that she thinks she is having another stroke. He rushes over, and when he throws the door opened, he knows with a wince that Mags knows him too well.

_(He really does hate her sometimes.)_

Annie is there, but will not look at him; Aslin is there, but stares coldly at Finnick. Bo, at least, manages a polite smile, though he continues the conversation about things that Finnick really does not care about, and thus the conversation buzz-buzz-buzzes around and around.

Mr. Cresta has declined. Bo says he is not well, he has had a nasty influenza. Apparently, Annie has stayed by his side, out of concern for her father. He has not been able to work, and though he has no real need, he has tried daily to sneak out to work without Annie noticing. He further will not hear of them calling a healer, never mind going to a medical center. On his assurance that he would be all right for one night alone, Annie had agreed to come to Mags’ dinner with the rest of her family.

The water turns to wine, and the tension between Finnick and the Crestas seems to lessen, though not thaw completely. Bo Cresta slips easily into conversation, telling stories about the docks and the fishing ships he has worked on. Aslin, though guardedly hostile in Finnick's experience, laughs and joins when Bo talks about their engagement. Meme, Pesca’s matchmaker, set them up back when the pair were fourteen. Their first meeting in person, alone, Bo had been so intimidated that he had thrown up all over Aslin’s family’s front porch.

“This gal’s already beautiful without makeup, right? You see her with it on, ya’ll’d feel inadequate, too!”

 _“Ridikil.”_ Aslin kissed Bo’s cheek. “I figured, he’s already puking on my porch, may as well get engaged to the poor thing.”

Annie, quiet always when there are so many people about, shakes her head with a smile. Their conversation continues, joking and loving all in the same breath. Bo and Aslin had apparently agreed to break it off if either should meet someone else by the time they were eighteen.

“Or, if either of us was…” Bo trails off, and Annie sits there, staring at her plate.

 _If either of us was Reaped._ They do not have to say it. After all, they are surrounded by Victors. They do not need to add that they had been waiting for Annie to be finished with the Games; finished with the threat of a Reaping.

Annie begins to hum softly, one hand easing up to her ear.

The subject promptly changes to abalone.

After dinner, still decidedly keeping himself separate from the others, Finnick steps out back. He breathes in low-tide off the marshes to the east. Crowds do not bother him, but incessant company does, at times, and knowing that _Annie Cresta is going to suffer_ makes him want to draw as far away from all these people as possible. He rests on Mags’ fishing dock, letting bare feet touch the water. He hears the rest of the Victors inside, laughing and singing, only slightly slurred by drunkenness. Someone plays a stringed _gita,_ leads them in some older District Four traditionals. The music drifts out through the opened windows, kisses the landscape in a way even the sun never can. Daran’s voice overpowers the others, a sad excuse for singing, but it is evened out by his wife’s sweeter tones.

Mags’ house faces Victor’s Inlet, with a series of barrier islands between the shore and the opened sea. Watch-shacks, used by Peacekeepers out in the marshy barriers, dot every other one, monitoring routes to the opened ocean. Most shacks are only occupied at dawn and dusk. They block Mags’ view far more than they do Finnick’s, at the end of the row.

The only beach with no barrier islands is the one that is always shown on television. In reality, even that beach, glittering with white sands, is cocooned within a large, half-moon-shaped harbor. Off shore there are protective reefs, to divert disaster as best as they can. There are barriers, too, offshore. President Snow has put them in place, so that no one can truly get beyond his reach.

District Four is on the coast, yes, but no fool would put a whole District on the open ocean without some safety regulations. Not even President Snow.

Finnick can see some lights on inside some of the watch-shacks, narrowing his eyes because damned if the Capitol does not ruin everything, even the view.

“Hello.” Annie offers from behind him.

She does not meet his eyes, when he turns to her. He knows her hesitation is because of his notes.

“Hello.” Finnick clears his throat. He pats the space next to him, after a moment.

 _I don’t hate you, Annie,_ Finnick wishes he could say it out loud. _I just don’t want you to hurt me._

She sits next to him, though leaving a good foot between them, for which he is grateful. He struggles, because she is sweet and she does not deserve this _(do any of us?)_ and he just wants to get a boat and sail them as far away from the Capitol as they can get.

“Wanna play guppies?” he asks, only half-managing to attain an undertone of innuendo.

Annie, apparently, misses it. “Sunset’s soon.”

For anyone caught on or in the water after sunset, the punishment is a public whipping in the town square. That is, if the boat in question is not shot to bits in apprehension.

They are not like District Twelve; most rules are enforced in Four.

Annie’s thumb and forefinger worry a lock of her hair. Most of the patches she had ripped out have since grown back, but she still fiddles with it often enough that he wonders how long she will go before another breakdown.

“No guppies till morning, Odair.”

Finnick shrugs at the reminder, and Annie smiles. He thinks it is the first genuine smile he has seen since… well, he does not actually know. It might be the first genuine smile she has given him _(because it can’t be genuine if she’s in the midst of a fit, can it?)._ He lets uncertainty rest, and turns his gaze back to the ocean.

The tune of the music inside the house changes; the fast-paced dancing reel played at weddings. Annie glances over her shoulder, before looking shyly to Finnick.

“This’s my favorite,” she murmurs, looking away.

He does not respond. He is unsure if he ought to.

“I went to Meme, last year.” she bites her lower lip. “Bo’s story reminded me.”

“Oh?” Finnick raises an eyebrow. “You have someone hidden away?”

“Maybe.” she twirls her hair around her forefinger.

“Do I know him? Was he at the party, the other day?”

She is staring at the water, her smile fading to a thin upturn.

“Aw, c’mon.” Finnick places a hand over his heart. “Aren’t I trustworthy?”

Annie laughs, though it is really just an empty exhale. “But he…”

He watches her disappear in her mind. He waits for her to come back, but she does not.

“Annie?” he prompts.

She takes a moment further; eventually, she peeks at him, uncertain and shy. He sees a wide-eyed innocence that should not have to be shattered. He ruins it anyway, because he would rather she remembers now, where he might help bring her back, than when she is alone in her house with a passed-out father and jumbled memories that do not make sense.

_(You just don’t want to be miserable on your own._

_Admit it: you ruined her, and now, you seek her company.)_

“You were saying something. You remember?”

“Oh?” Annie clears her throat. She shifts, looking down at the ripples her toes cause in the water. “Was Dom.”

“Dom?”

She ho-hums. Finnick stiffens, realizing what she is saying. Dom, her district partner. Her district partner is who the matchmaker had paired her with. And his head had rolled at her feet.

“It’s not that we…” she trails off. Hands twist at the hem of her shirt, now, instead, with a vengeance. “Knew each other well. I didn’t like him, even. Not like that. He was older.”

“I thought he was Waterside,” Finnick says quietly.

“He is-- _was_. His uncle…” Annie nods to herself. Her hands release her shirt, hang in midair as she stares at them. A light laugh precedes her question; “The _Extremis?”_

Finnick nods. He is unsure, though, if she is really looking for a confirmation, or if this is her explanation. Everyone in District Four knows the late tribute’s uncle. Dhow Furler’s ship, the _Extremis,_ is the largest privately-owned fishing ship in Waterside. Dom, Annie’s deceased district partner, had been raised by Dhow in Waterside, training most of his life. He had been seventeen, muscular, and a strong contender.

“Our mamas…,” Annie trails away again, but returns more firmly, diction careful. “Grew up Waterside, married Pesca. His parents died when he was little. He didn’t come back to Pesca. I guess he must’ve asked Meme to match him…? But I don’t really know him-- _didn’t_. He said hi, but I _didn’t_ really know him.”

They still trained in the same complex. Mags had said Dom had looked out for Annie, in the Arena, and this could explain why. They might actually have kept each other alive until they absolutely could not avoid it.

_(Might’ve, would’ve, could’ve--_

_They **might** have courted, gotten married, lived happily ever after._

_They **would** have had hundreds of redhaired babies who breathed saltwater_

_whose eyes lit like the seas, as seen from beneath the waves._

_They **could** have liked making food at three in the morning-)_

None of that matters now. The boy is dead. Decapitated, his head at Annie’s feet where she had been hidden. She screamed and screamed, they say; screamed herself out of her mind. Annie had hooked knives in the boy and girl who had done it, wounds they succumbed to quickly. They rarely mention that, when talking of her madness; instead, they mention it, when speaking of her as a Victor and Capitol mouthpiece. She had laughed in a cave, till the end, while covered in their blood. Annie Cresta walks a fine line, between being fascinating the Capitol, and being an aberration.

_Annie Cresta is going to suffer._

_(Hasn’t that always been the case?)_

“On bad days, I see him.”

He knows where she is coming from, now. Finnick watches her, carefully. He sees no recent injections on her inner arms, and wonders what the hell they are thinking. Without his help, are they struggling to give her the shots? No, that cannot be; surely, they would not just let her go unmedicated?

 _She’s doing well, Finnick,_ his brain tries to reason. _Maybe she’s getting better without you._

“Dom says things... when I see him,” Annie says quietly. Her eyes are squinting. “Is that real, Finnick?”

“No,” Finnick tries to look her in the eyes, tries to get to her, but he does not know if it works. “No, Annie, that’s not real.”

“Good,” she nods, eyelashes batting. She seems mildly reassured.

Finnick understands some of what might have been said. Or, what she has _imagined_ Dom to say. What if Finnick had a matchmaker before his Games? What if his match had been put in the Arena, with him? What if he had actually cared about his partner?

_Would you still have slit her throat, Finnick Odair?_

(He hates the voice that answers back, _Probably.)_

One hand is edging to Annie’s ear.

“I’m sorry.” Finnick’s words sound lame, but nothing else comes to mind.

“S’okay.”

Annie pauses before she gingerly puts her hand on his, stares for a long moment. It is strange, that she seems to do it to comfort him, more than herself. A moment passes before she frowns, mouth hanging opened for a moment. She is blinking rapidly. Her fingers tighten around his hand, gradually, at first, then full-force. He winces, but does not pull away.

“What’s the matter?” Finnick prompts. He recognizes that warning sign for what it is. _Is it a hallucination?_

“I…” she gulps, and he sees the eyes glassing over, breath quickening. She is beginning to panic. Her eyes widen, look straight at him; she is remembering something. “Got a call?”

“On the telephone?” Finnick’s tone may be casual, but the concern immediately drags at the back of his mind.

_(Annie Cresta is going to suffer.)_

Annie nods slowly in confirmation, suddenly jerking her hand away from his. Her breath is becoming more ragged.

“When?”

Hands are developing a tremor. _“Pa konnen.”_

“Can I ask what it was about?” _Can I ask if it was that son-of-a-bitch? Can I ask if I can rip his damn throat out?_ When she does not respond, Finnick swallows over a lump in his throat. “Who was it, Annie?”

“He…” she reaches a hand up, rubs at her neck. Her eyes focus on the water. “N-not getting better. The tour. You-- _I_ need to try, more. Obligations to fulfill.”

She begins rocking, slightly. Her eyes are wide, glassing over; and he can see she is disappearing. There is more, Finnick knows there is more, and he knows doing this will only make her worse, but he needs to know what was said.

 _Annie Cresta is going to suffer,_ he tries to bite back the thought.

The President does not make idle threats. And nobody says _‘Fuck the Capitol’_ on live television.

“What, _exactly,_ did he say?” Finnick’s voice is sharper than he means to use on her.

President Snow has left a memory in Annie’s head, and lets it come out now, in her own personal form of torment-- _because the Mad Girl hadn’t behaved, remember?_

Let it come out to torment Finnick-- he has a weak spot for _(weak)_ sweet things, remember?

“Have to have the others help fix me. Not learning on your own, Miss Cresta?” her voice is disconnected. She rocks harder now, hands gripping just below her ears on either side of her neck. She looks ready to choke herself.  “May have to stay with us for an extended treatment, no one there can treat you how you need. She has some poor role models, in the District. We would hate for you to be distracted by y-… your family.” her lips hang open, before a hand slides over, covering her mouth. Eyes snap to his, focused and clear when she hardly whispers; “It _happened,_ Finnick, and he’s so angry." _  
_

“I know,” Finnick feels the words leave but it is as if someone else is speaking them; someone unaffected and apathetic and able to ignore the similarities _(there really are so many)._ “I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

Lucidity disappears quickly as it had come, and she shakes her head, clamps hands over her ears. Finnick’s jaw clenches. All he can do is watch her, feeling helpless. Snow threatened the Crestas, knowing Annie would forget; knowing she would, eventually, remember. Snow is toying with her, pushing her limits, seeing how mad she is, seeing how he can play with this new doll of his. _(Masters always need to know the limits of their pets, isn’t that right?)_ Annie sways, head jerking forward and back with her body’s motion. Her eyes are squinting, hands tightly gripping her ears now.

“Your p-Papa isn’t looking so good, is he? Such a shame.”

 _Your Papa isn’t looking so good_. Finnick is on his feet before he realizes it, rushing through the sandy grass towards the Cresta’s house. The door is unlocked, and eerily silent. Eery, for Mr. Cresta is never this quiet a person, even in his sleep.

Finnick should have known, and yet, and yet, and yet. Mr. Cresta’s body is cold on the living room floor. Blood has pooled and dried on the floor where it had flowed out of his mouth.

_Poison._

 

* * *

 

The President sends personal physicians to ‘investigate.’

They say Mr. Cresta had a bad heart.

When they tell Annie, she jumps in the water, and has to be dragged out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry I'm not sorry  
> thankyouthankyou for reading <3


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does it look like a disfigured head, to you? I could almost see that, there.  
> (He thinks, I should spare you the pain and just kill you  
> He thinks, We don’t deserve this)
> 
> or, the final days of a restless respite.

“So, how is she?” Finnick breaks the silence that lingers in his beloved mother figure's home. He does not look up from his cup of sweet tea; he already knows the expression Mags is likely wearing. “Is it bad?”

No words respond, and Finnick’s eyes glance up, assessing his mentor. Her eyes are narrowed, but lips are only slightly set in a frown. It has been two days, and sixteen hours, since Mr. Cresta’s death. He has heard wailing, heard yelling, and all sorts of clattering and shatterings; and he should have checked, by now, he should have tried to help. He has not. He tells himself he will not. _President Snow has punished Annie Cresta._ Finnick cannot fix that, nor does he want to intervene. Either she learns her place, or… well, she does not.

 _“Malad.”_ Mags coughs, sipping her drink and patting her chest. She goes no further than shrugging.

Finnick lets out a slight huff, hopes it sounds irritated. In reality, he is concerned. (He is concerned, because he cares. And he hates that about himself, because _what good does caring ever do?)_ Mags smacks him and he starts, realizing in his short contemplation that he has missed a few minutes tick by. Funny, how time works.

“Go?” the raised brow is a challenge and Finnick groans in retort. “Family no _pa ase, cher._ Know this.”

“I’ve got all the family I need, Mags,” he gives a wink and pushes his chair away, standing. The charm falls on ears that hear past his words, and when he continues, Mags seems unsurprised; “I’m not going there.”

He heads to Mags’ ice-box, pulling grapes and cheese out, beginning to make himself up a plate of snacks. A rap on the front door comes just as Finnick is setting back in his chair. Mags raises her brow at the younger man. Finnick smiles back serenely, and Mags clucks her tongue before heading towards the door. She ruffles his hair for good measure as she passes him.

“Got a visitor?” Finnick turns and freezes, with his mouth stuffed full of food. He gulps sharply, because Bo Cresta is in the doorway, looking just at surprised (and annoyed) as Finnick feels. “Cresta.”

“Odair.” Bo nods, before turning back to Mags. _“Ap sèten?_ It’s not too much to ask?”

In reply, Mags pats Bo’s cheek gently, giving Finnick that look. Raised brow on one eye, other narrowed, she asks, without words, _'What’re you waitin’ for, boy?’_

Finnick takes another thoughtful bite of cheese, before brushing his hands off over the table. Mags smacks him on the back, and he uses a napkin like a proper boy trying to avoid ants.

And he is brought back five years, when he brushed his hands off after eating sloppily.

_‘Want to clean my house, boy?’_

_‘No, ma’am.’_

_‘Don’t make mess, then.’_

_‘Yes, ma’am-’_

_‘I look like ma’am?’_

_‘Er, no, ma-’_

_‘Hm?’_

_‘No, Mags. Better?’_

_‘No.’_

_‘No?’_

_‘No, you mess up my kitchen.’_

_‘Sorry-’_

_‘No, sorry. Yes, clean.’_

_‘Yes, ma’am-’ Finnick cracks up when she smacks him yet again. ‘Mags.’_

Mags does not need to ask, does not need to prompt for Finnick to follow her, not this time.

Bo gives Finnick a curious glance, but says nothing as the latter accompanies them out of the house. The trio heads out into the hot glare of noontime. The sun sticks clothing to his back, but Finnick pulls his sleeves down to his wrists. He nods to, but otherwise avoids fellow Victors out and about. Bo puts on a happy face, Finnick notices, brushes off questions from Daran and others, about Annie, with, _‘She’s managing,’_ or, _‘Dealing as best she can.’_ Finnick follows Bo Cresta’s lead. When they enter the Cresta’s house, Aslin greets Bo with a tight hug. Aslin glares at Finnick, but the latter is distracted, because in the sitting room just beyond the foyer, to the right of the foot of the stairs, Mr. Jobe Cresta’s body is lying in _dèy_. It is an old custom, one Finnick has never witnessed firsthand, and the sight of the body makes him nauseous. He forces himself to look away. Forces himself to repress the thought of all the Pesca tributes in his time since becoming a mentor, who have been shipped home in small black boxes. After all, just because District Four has Careers, does not mean they always have volunteers. There are plenty of child-sized coffins and urns, buried in District Four's cemetery, to prove it.

“She’s upstairs.” Bo’s voice breaks through the haze Finnick feels his mind descending into, as does Mags’ tap to his shoulder. Bo hesitates, looking to his fiyanse then their guests.

“I’ll wait down here.” Aslin clears her throat, clearly uncomfortable, before heading towards the kitchen.

Mags leads the way, and Finnick follows. He remembers, after her breakdown, when he had made this same journey, only to have the door locked at the top landing. In contrast to that time, the door is wide opened, curtains pushed aside to allow the bright sun and blue skies to shine through the splayed-opened windows. And, rather than finding Annie under the bed, or on the floor, she is sitting in a rocking chair which faces the windows. Bo pauses in the doorframe, only entering the room to allow Mags and Finnick to pass by him.

“Annie,” Bo tries, back-stepping and leaning heavily against the wooden molding. He crosses his arms, and sets a hard stare on Finnick.

Seeking to evade the judgmental glare, and feeling Mags’ stare is just as intent, Finnick moves towards Annie, sitting on the edge of the bed so he can see her better. A distant smile is on her face, but her eyes are heavy, glassed over; her arms bearing only marks of syringe injections, and not that of any fresh self-mutilation. An inhale catches sharply, because he realizes that her lips are moving, wordlessly, and fingers twitch, as if they are in the midst of something.

 _Knots,_ he thinks. She is imagining tying knots.

Finnick feels sick again.

Voices are fuzzy, and when he turns to Mags, he realizes that he must have missed something, because she and Bo both stare at him expectantly. He says nothing, but Mags breaks the silence, thankfully.

“Higher dose.” weathered hands motion to Annie. Mags approaches, setting a gentle hand on the top of the girl’s head. Crowsfoot eyes meet Finnick’s with a smirk that should not get under his skin. “Less _malad,_ yes?”

 _Less malad?_ No, Annie does not look any less ill than she had the day they all came home. She looks lost, although, in this case, at least she looks happy about it.

“Sure,” Finnick keeps his voice neutral, before trying to follow the gaze of sea-green eyes. A patchy fluff of cloud drifts aimlessly, and Finnick tries not to imagine what Annie sees in its shadow.

_Does it look like a disfigured head, to you, Annie? I could almost see that, there._

(He thinks, _I should spare you the pain and just kill you_

He thinks, _We don’t deserve this)_

Snow wants Annie fixed, and so does Finnick, yet nothing would make Finnick happier than sparing her the President’s wrath. Sparing her from living at all. Finnick is too weak and too selfish to do that. Always has been. _But if he could..._

“Finnick?” Bo Cresta calls the former out of his reverie. The oldest Cresta looks between the Golden Boy and Mags, before a hesitation. “Look, I appreciate you coming, but it’s not a big deal, Mags can handle her when she’s… like this. We’ll only be gone about an hour, just going back to Pesca. Most’ve my things’re there still at the old Cresta house.”

 _Old_ Cresta, _oldest_ Cresta, Finnick’s mind begins churning backwards, against the current, _down the stairs and to the left, to the body of Mr. Jobe Cresta--_

The corpse will linger here until tomorrow morning, when the undertaker will tote Mr. Cresta away, to be cremated. Pesca’s _dèy_ custom is mildly disturbing, barbaric to Finnick’s Waterside sensibilities. The Pesca family washes, dresses, and prepares the body, then sits two evenings, from sunset to sunrise, in silence. Today is day two. Tomorrow, the corpse will be out of the house. Finnick wonders if Annie is even aware of what is going on. As far as he knows, she, herself, has said and done nothing coherent since they dragged her out of the water.

Mags begins to hum, in her own, grumble-coughing sort of way, as she runs her fingers through Annie’s hair. The girl’s hands have gone still, but there are no other changes.

Bo comes a few steps into the room now, before pausing.

“I’m saying, you should go.”

Finnick stares in response.

“It’s pretty heavy stuff they’ve sent.” the man’s voice falters, and his eyes drift to the back of his sister’s head. “Mags can handle her.”

“I’m not leaving,” is the simple response.

 _This is my fault,_ hangs in the air, but Finnick will not say it. He tries to tell himself that it is a lie, one President Snow would doubtlessly condone. One more weight on Finnick Odair’s shoulders, it would be a stroke of luck, for dear old Coriolanus. But _Annie, Annie, Annie-_ is any of this really her fault, either? Of course not. They are all just victims.

Whose fault does it become, then? Someone helpless and _defenseless,_ because of their own mind; or someone helpless and _overdrawn,_ in the area of compassion?

Apathy has never been so appealing a notion. Finnick leans his head back, ignoring the expressions exchanged between Mags and Bo. It is an imaginary conversation, but voices in Finnick’s head have it out, anyway:

_‘Good boy. Estipid, but good.’_

_‘He told my sister that she’s crazy and he hates her. He's slept with and left more people than I've ever met.’_

He follows Annie’s line of sight, once again, now focused only on a wide expanse of bright blue. None of them says anything further about Finnick leaving.

Annie’s eyelashes begin batting in patterns.

_Code._

_Could it be?_

_(Annie, where are you?)_

Finnick wonders if Bo would be able to read what she is saying, or if it is nonsense. Her lips remain partially opened, though they do not move. Her fingers continue to twitch and weave something in the air, which only she can see.

“We’re going to grab some things from home.” Bo is looking at his sister, expression caught halfway between disgust and pity. _Does he really expect a response from the girl they have drugged into an abyss?_ “We’ll be back by dinner. Need anything?”

Realizing the question is directed partly towards himself, Finnick shakes his head. Bo lingers, before leaving. Mags kisses Annie’s forehead, following Bo Cresta out of the room. Hushed voices speak outside the doorway, before steps tap down the stairs, and the screen door shuts. Finnick does not bother to try to understand any of what the others say. A few pots and pans clink downstairs in the kitchen, presumably Mags taking it upon herself to begin cooking something up.

Finnick watches Annie. He wants to go where she goes, especially seeing how it makes her smile.

“I’m so sorry,” he says aloud.

She is lost, and he knows she cannot hear him, but he still needs to tell her. He needs her to know. He stands, and moves closer to her. He kneels in front of the girl before taking her hands in both of his, and squeezing them. Her eyes stay glassed over, fingers continuing to fidget even as he holds her hands. He sees her lips move, again; tries to understand what she is saying, in her hazy state. It is no use.

“I hope you don’t come back, sometimes,” he murmurs, more to himself than to her. “Wherever you go, seems much happier than here.”

Eyelashes flutter, catching strands of her hair, and he reaches up, pushing the strands away. He runs a thumb along her cheek. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Her lids are heavier, now, even than they had been moments earlier.

“Where are you, Annie?” he is talking to a shell, to a ghost, to something, not someone. Her eyes close, in a hazy slumber, he assumes. "Sleep tight."

Finnick pushes himself up, kisses Annie’s forehead. He crosses the room, leaves to see if he can be of assistance to Mags. He makes sure to steer as far away from the sitting room, and Mr. Cresta’s deceased, decaying form, as possible.

 

* * *

 

It is hot. It is hot, and humid, and sticky, and Mags says Annie’s kitchen is about as barren as Haymitch Abernathy’s root cellar in winter. At least, Finnick thinks that is what Mags has said. Sometimes, it is hard to tell, when the old woman takes on too many nouns and verbs at once. Apparently, Bo and Aslin have not gone shopping for the girl. A few spices and some expired milk are all that linger in the cupboards. Mags has informed Finnick that she needed to gather proper sweet-tea supplies, and rice from her own home, and _could you stay with Annie, be sure she’s safe?_

The dead body is in the house with him, Finnick knows, as is a sixteen-year-old who is a shell and despondent and gone, for all intents and purposes. Sitting on the top of the stairs, Finnick wonders which is truly worse company: the deceased, or the catatonic?

Finnick, eventually, allows the light press of humid air lull him to sleep, drifting through a waking dream made of haze and blood and ashes.

He sees little Annie on a boat with candy, _random bloodied men talking about the number thirteen-_

The phone rings, and his eyes snap opened.

He hesitates, wondering if, perhaps, he is still dreaming. He looks over his shoulder, into Annie’s room. The girl is just as she was, still and quiet in the rocking chair in the corner of her room: eyes, still heavily lidded, stare at nothing. The telephone sounds again.

Finnick clenches his jaw, a nausea in his stomach unrelated to what he has eaten today. Roses, he can practically conjure them from thin air, and his instincts scream for him to run, run far away. Rising deliberately, Finnick heads down the stairs. The phone seems to know he is coming; it continues, bleating, until his hand reaches out, lifts the receiver to his ear.

_How long have you been watching today, Snow? Nothing better to do?_

_(Not like the guy’s got a country to run, or anything.)_

“Hello.” his voice is flat, but he does not care.

The man calling him is the same who did this; has probably watched the entire time.

“Mr. Odair, how good to hear your voice.”

Finnick has no energy for this game. The President waits a moment.

“Not loquacious today, Mr. Odair?” a brief pause gives little room for retort. “That’s too bad. I trust, in any case, that my message has been so graciously passed along to Miss Cresta. This call is merely to inform you, that you will accompanying the victor team from your District, during Miss Cresta’s upcoming Victory Tour. You will assist her in expressing her deep appreciation for all that the Capitol has provided for her.”

Finnick’s head is spinning, and his hand squeezes the receiver with such force, imagining it is Snow’s neck. Snow wants him on Annie’s Victory Tour.

_(This means, when we arrive in the Capitol…)_

“Mr. Odair, I will need some form of acknowledgement. Am I clear?”

“Crystal.” Finnick’s tongue is sharp. His body feels heavy, so heavy. He tries to tell himself it is the heat and damp air, and not the weight of invisible chains.

“Careful, Odair.”

The poison is in the snake’s bite, menacing and potent, and Finnick knows it. Always coiled, ready to strike. Still, he laughs aloud.

 _The snake thinks I don’t know what he can do._ This man has whored him out since age fourteen; slaughtered entire families, children and pets included, yet still feels a need to threaten him verbally. What could be funnier?

“Is something amusing, Mr. Odair?” the tone is cold.

It brings Finnick back, because Annie is catatonic in her room, and her brother and Aslin are oblivious, and absent; and Mags, strong as she is, is frail in age and health.

“No, sir.”

“Good, I am certain you understand the nature of Miss Cresta’s predicament.” the reminder brings ice water to a mind drunk on fitful slumber and self-reproach. “Undoubtedly, we would hate to inconvenience the rest of her family. It would be awful, should something worsen her condition, so soon after her father’s passing.”

“I understand, sir-”

“After all,” Snow continues over Finnick. “Her medications are quite expensive. Were you aware? Surely we cannot provide such a luxury to someone unable to repay the Capitol’s generosity.”

“Naturally.”

If they do not comply, they will not even be permitted to tranquilize her, because they will have nothing left to use. Morphling is too addicting. They all know what happens to Victors like Annie Cresta in District Six, and ending up like that is not part of the President’s plan. No, the Capitol-provided tranquilizers and medications are the only things that calm her. The threat of denying access to sedatives has never felt so vicious. She has not harmed herself, not since they gave her this new medication; neither has she really been a person, whole and complete and competent. But when have any of them, any Victor, truly be allowed to be whole persons?

Finnick closes his eyes. He is trying to find that place where Annie goes, where she disappears and smiles. He is jealous of her, for that. His mind does not provide escapes, only prison cells.

“This new medication will need to be administered by a medical professional. I have selected him personally.” the sneer, the amusement clearly filling the President, makes Finnick’s blood boil. “The first dosages Miss Cresta's family has so _kindly_ begun to administer already, but the physician will be on hand to treat Miss Cresta up to and during the tour. He is confident he will have her prepared for her duties as a Victor within the next month.”

Finnick is unsure what he says in response, it is lost in a haze of fury. He might say  _thank you, sir._

“Oh, and,” the President pauses, though with Finnick’s lack of responses he can hardly be expected to say anything now. _“Do_ remember our previous conversations. It wouldn't do for our Golden Boy to be... distracted. Would it?”

“Yes, sir.” The words sound like they are coming out of someone else’s mouth. That is precisely the idea Snow relishes. Stuff the Victors so full of the Capitol, there is little to nothing of _them_ left to protest.

"Glad we have that cleared up." the venom, the venom of a snake spits through the phone and at a cough, Finnick sees the man's lips, spurting blood. If only the flow of blood never stopped. "Put Miss Cresta on the phone."

"Sir, she-"

"I am not fond of repeating myself, Mr. Odair." 

"Yes, sir." the words spill out, before Finnick can swallow over the lump in his throat; before he sets the phone to the side, walks slowly up to Annie's room.

She is vacant, listless, staring out the window. He tugs her to her feet, bracing her by the shoulders when it looks as if she will fall. She allows herself to be led downstairs  _(a little lamb for the slaughter, this is so wrong),_ standing where he places her. When he offers the phone, she stares through him, fingers fidget, but give no indication of intent to hold the phone herself. Finnick feels a tightness in his chest, but pushes it down, presses the phone to Annie's ear, holding it there himself. He cannot hear the conversation, except for muffled sounds of Snow's voice. Annie's lips hang opened, as if she might respond, but when it becomes apparent that she does not acknowledge him  _(such a sin, such a sin, Annie Cresta is going to suffer again),_ the voice booms out with finality one final sentence:

“Enjoy the remainder of your vacation.”

When the line clicks, Finnick leads Annie back upstairs, tucking her in her bed. When Mags returns, he departs, saying nothing and refusing to allow himself a look back.

_ Enjoy the remainder of your vacation. _

Big joke.

_ (No renmen li, Finnick. _

Aren't you just a barrel of laughs lately, Mr. Odair?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> figured I'd post something to make the week pass faster, meant to post this on Wednesday, tbh, but oh well! Happy Thursday! <3


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything with President Snow is a tradeoff, after all: safety for your body; comfort, for your soul.

“Your hair looks silly.”

Finnick looks up, to find the statement is from Annie Cresta. She pauses a few feet away from him, lucid and pretty and seemingly together. And she is smiling, if shyly, at him. He had not heard the Victor’s team approaching, distracted as he has been playing his part. That _the_ Finnick Odair will be accompanying the Mad Girl on her Victory Tour has been all that is discussed on the television lately.

“Nonsense, Cresta.” Finnick gives a cocky grin. “I'm too pretty to look silly."

“Oh.”

Is the only response that garners, before she looks away. Finnick tries not to be disappointed. After all, they have not spoken in days. He has gone over, to check in, to ask how Annie is. Each time, he has either been met with her blank stares and whispered, confused replies, Aslin's hostile silence, or Bo's polite rebuffing. He is uncertain how much of his checking in, has been pity, and how much has been for him, not her; how she even feels about either idea. How she feels about _him_ , for that matter.

(He thinks, _She should hate me_

He thinks, _I don’t want her to_

_I wish we could just stay here)_

Annie turns to her family, both of whom hug her so tightly that they must be trying to fuse together. For his own Tour, the Odairs had been a noisy and excited bunch- anxious, yes, but they certainly had not feared for the Tour, the way Annie’s family clearly does. Then again, Finnick’s losses had come after his Tour had ended.

He wonders whose scars are worse: his, or hers. (In reality, they’re even.)

“Don’t eat too much,” Bo cautions, pulling away. The man keeps a hand firmly on his sister’s shoulder, even as his _fiyanse_ hugs her. “Their foods might be different. Be polite, but don’t overindulge-”

“But don’t forget to eat, either,” Aslin interjects. She extracts herself, but holds Annie’s gaze. Aslin tugs nervously at the blue cord on her finger, clearly agitated. _“Toujou jwenn twa manje yon jou.”_

 _“Mwen pral,_ Sissy.” Annie’s voice cracks, and she is blinking rapidly, because she is blinking back tears.

 _(She's doing well,_ Finnick thinks.

_Maybe the medicine is actually helping her._

Wouldn't that be a twist in the game, Snow doing right by a Victor?)

Bo nods, and the three come together again to form a tightly clung circle. Finnick hears the whir of cameras, knows they are not going to let one slice of what might be a beautifully sentimental moment off the hook. He keeps his distance; turns every now and then, gives a disarming smile and wink.

Mags had been standing by him, but as Bo and Aslin pull back, the elderly woman pushes Finnick aside so she can give Annie a tight hug. The old woman mumbles something in Annie’s ear, and Annie nods, looking at the ground. Mags nudges her chin up, cups the young Victor’s face in weathered hands. Annie’s smile seems forced. Mags presses a kiss to her temple; Annie returns the gesture. This seems to please the older woman, and Mags pats Annie’s cheek lovingly.

Daran arrives soon after. He instantly loops his arm in Annie’s, nodding disinterestedly as District Four's escort prattles away. Finnick wonders, briefly, what sort of calls Daran has received lately. Is 'assisting' Annie in this as frightening for the older man as it is for Finnick? Does Mags feel the same sense of dread as Finnick? The same twinge of jealousy, seeing Annie’s family so protective and concerned? He has never had a Victor from his District before; from what he knows, there have never been three accompanying Victor-mentors on a Victory Tour. Annie Cresta’s Victorship truly is one broken precedent after another.

The Capitol stylist team stands a few feet away, their outlandish appearances out of place here, against the natural beauty of the shorefront. Annie’s stylists had arrived early this morning, making a stop at Finnick’s, ever-so-briefly, before continuing on to the Cresta’s.

_('Oh, those abs, darling, absolutely **stunning** , so glad you've kept in shape!')_

Annie is decked in a shimmering midnight blue dress, deep and reminiscent of the moon on the waves. It pauses at her knees, though the back-end flows to her shins. They have her in thin sandals, flesh-colored, so it will appear she is walking barefoot. Her shoulders are bare, although the neckline does not plunge far; and a gauzy dark blue shrug shields her shoulders. The dark blue makes her fiery hair and brown freckles stand out against it. Hair has grown back, in full; it is not just hair plugs, and this pleases Finnick. Her skin has been healed, now, flawless, no hints of the pain she might have been causing herself. They have polished her, to a glow, and slapped makeup on her face. Far too much makeup, but then, that is the point: smoky eyes, long lashes, rouged cheeks. Deep red lips pout against a heart-shaped face. She does not look sixteen, soon-to-be seventeen. She looks like an adult, ready to be taken to the bedroom. It is disgusting.

She does look like she has slept, and even Finnick can admit to himself, that counts for something. Everything with President Snow is a tradeoff, after all: _safety for your body; comfort, for your soul._

“Hello,” Finnick offers, because her statement earlier had not been much of a greeting.

She began to eat again, Mags had informed him, the day after they finished mourning Mr. Cresta. It helped, certainly, that Annie’s father’s corpse had been removed from the house. The ashes are buried in the District's cemetery. Some of the Victors had attended the burial. Finnick had not been one of them. He had, however, brought her a basket of fish, but she had not let him come past his place on the front porch. She had kept the screen door locked, and herself hidden behind the inside door, as if he might--

_as if he would--_

_I don't want to hurt you, Annie, but you scare the hell out of me._

_Does she think I'm the one who...?_ Finnick bites back the thought.

(She thought she was pregnant by him;

but he never touched her, not like that.

The patron and his wife are the ones who had gotten her body.)

The medication, despite Finnick’s lingering suspicions about its ingredients, seems to have done her good.

Finnick almost wishes it had failed. He had said as much to Mags, after the phone call from Snow. The old woman promptly boxed him upside the head. He does not blame her.

“Hello, Finnick.” Annie’s retort is half-hearted, and her eyes do not meet his.

She crosses her arms across her stomach, eyes peek back over her shoulder. The sea-breeze off the water plays with her styled locks. She looks towards the ocean longingly. Finnick cannot blame her. The sea is a much more pleasant sight, one which they will not be seeing for weeks. The cameras and the pens with the _(mandated)_ crowd of District Four citizens there to see their Victor off juxtapose too starkly with the serene beauty they will soon leave behind. Annie’s family has been escorted to the other side of the barricade, and she seems to be more self-conscious in their absence. Finnick wonders, if she were to panic now, if there would be some chance of a cancellation.

(He knows the answer, but a _[boy]_ man can dream, can't he?) _  
_

“Honey,” Daran’s voice brings both Annie and Finnick out of their thoughts. _“Vin sou.”_

“Sorry.”

Annie's automatic reply spurs a tight smile on Daran’s part. The man’s time as a Victor is coming up on twenty years. Surely, he has seen some madness in his time; surely, the older Victor is treating Annie differently than he may have others.  _What makes Annie Cresta so damned special?_

Daran and his wife married nearly sixteen years ago. They do not have any children. Finnick thinks he knows his fellow Victor’s reasoning; wonders if the President has done the same medical sterilization as he had on Haymitch Abernathy, all those years ago. _(The same sterilization Finnick has been nervously anticipating for years. His seed, unfortunately, is too valuable an asset.)_ Annie could easily be Daran’s daughter. Their builds are similar, thin though athletic. Daran’s eyes are more of a hazel than green, and he is closer to Finnick in height. Annie is more petite, eyes more of a deep ocean green. Finnick can see in Daran’s interactions with Annie, how good he could have been as a father. How delicate and gentle he is with her.

How paternal, really.

(Sometimes, Finnick wonders what it would be like. But he stops himself.

There's a reason Mags _had_ a son, _past_ tense.)

Daran’s arm wraps around Annie’s shoulder, hugging her tightly to his side. She leans into him, and when the music and cameras and narrations begin, she flinches sharply, head jerking upwards. Daran pats her back, and they load on to the train.

Mags gives Finnick's shoulder a squeeze once they are inside. 

_Let the Games begin._

* * *

She rearranges things on the table, a distant smile on her face.

 _This is new,_ Finnick thinks of the obsession. She is alphabetizing the utensils, and spices, and syrups, and condiments. Daran seems to find nothing strange about this, so Finnick holds his tongue. The stylist and escort are blabbering again, every now and again asking Finnick or Daran some question or other; neither man is particularly interested in answering, though Finnick will force a smile if it seems like it will get them off of his back. Mags had excused herself, shortly after the train departed, with a yawn. Napping is highest on Mags' list of priorities. Finnick wishes he had the excuse of old age, to pull the same line.

 _(No you don't, Finnick,_ his mind chimes.  _You don't want to live to her age, doing what you do.)_ _  
_

The forward door of the dining car, towards the train’s engine, opens. Finnick glances up to see a man in a white Peacekeeper uniform. The chatter dies down, and Daran forces a smile that is too tight.

The peacekeeper, ashen-skinned with sharp facial features, approaches their table with a toothy smile that, for all its obvious pretense, reminds Finnick of a shark.

“Afternoon.” the man holds out a hand to Finnick, who takes it uncertainly. Daran, similarly, takes and releases the offering as quickly as possible. “If I could borrow Miss Cresta for a moment?”

Annie has frozen, fingers on a knife which she holds in midair. Her eyes are wide, and she looks trapped.

“Honey,” Daran prompts, carefully taking the knife from her. _“Tan yo ale.”_

Finnick frowns, seeing his confusion mirrored in the stylist and escort’s faces. Annie seems to understand, though; her lips are partially opened as she scoots out of her seat. Her shoulders hunch up, eyes downcast and hands reach up, worrying her styled hair. The peacekeeper places a hand on the girl’s elbow, leads her towards the door through which he had entered. The door shuts behind them. Finnick finds himself rising before he realizes. The escort and stylist must be speaking again, and Daran must be answering, for Finnick can hear mumblings and rumblings from them all. Finnick’s eyes are on the door the peacekeeper led Annie Cresta through. All he can think is that that peacekeeper is doing something awful to her.

A hand sets on his shoulder. Finnick turns sharply to see Daran watching him.

“Name's Hanratty. He’s part of the train crew, officially. But he'll be doing the injections.”

Daran’s words do not make sense at first, until Finnick recalls President Snow’s comment, about his personal selection of a doctor to treat Annie.

_“He is to accompany you on Miss Cresta’s tour.”_

“She’ll be all right.” Daran clears his throat, lowering his voice. “Took some adjusting, but she doesn't get as knocked out as she did at first. It’s been helping her get some rest, at least.”

Finnick nods. He does not know what else to do.

“She’ll be all right.” Daran repeats, likely more for his own sake.

“Seems she’s doing okay.” the words sound lame. Finnick resents himself for saying anything.

“Yeah.” Daran smiles, slightly, setting on the arm of one of the chairs. “I asked, what’s in whatever they’re giving her. It’s not morphling, it’s something to help… balance chemicals. In her head.”

Finnick sits across from his fellow Victor, ignores the blabbering of the escort and stylist on the other side of the car. The two men are quiet for a time, watching the landscape pass by in a blur, outside.

“They’re going to stop after the Tour.” Finnick murmurs.

And with his own words, he begins to slowly realize the only reason they are doing this is so that she can perform for the cameras. He had known, but not truly considered it, not thought it all the way through. He should just be grateful that, as a means of enslaving her, Snow is also helping her. There is more purpose to Snow’s threats, though, more purpose to Finnick being on the tour. Finnick might help Annie avoid embarrassing the Capitol more than she might have already. Help provide a _distraction_ from the toll the Games have taken on a sixteen-year-old girl. He wants Finnick Odair to help auction off Annie Cresta to the highest bidders. Well, screw that.

 _Screw helping Snow’s bullshit come out of Annie’s lips._ Screw helping her play off her insanity so that Snow can sell her, again and again.

“The medication will stop after her Tour.”

 _“Petèt.”_ Daran keeps his eyes trained on the window, watching the world roll by them. “I’m not sure.”

“Good.” Finnick does not mean to give Daran a glower as he does. The other man looks surprised. “It’s better that way. Leave her in Four to go mad.”

“You think so?” the question sounds more like an accusation.

A bitter huff comes out of Finnick’s mouth, and he runs a hand through his hair. He cannot form another response.

If they stop the medication, if Annie goes crazy, she won’t have to come back, she’ll be too unstable for them to--

“She’s not a _toy,_ Finnick.”

Daran’s tone, sharp with a hint of anger, gives a different expression to the man’s normally impassive face. The sixteen-year-old who had hooked his competitors in the neck, carved up District One with ease, surfaces for the first time within Finnick’s memory; part of the Golden Boy is glad to see it. Daran is always quiet. Seeing him as vicious brings a smirk to Finnick’s lips. It is a strange victory, one that feels more like disappointment. A reassurance that no Victors are really decent, not underneath it all. It makes the Golden Boy feel better, in some twisted way.

“Is to them.” Finnick finds he is laughing, without humor; something like a shark in the back of his head is surfacing, on pure defensive instinct. “And they’ll get bored of her soon enough. She’s mad, Daran, who wants to bed a girl like that?”

The older man narrows his eyes.

“And if she can’t _work,_ like the rest of us, then she doesn't _deserve_ medicine to-”

A fist cuts him off, punches his jaw; Daran grabs Finnick’s shirt, throws him against the wall. The fury in the man’s face only makes Finnick laugh harder.

“This’s our fault, you dick.” Daran’s voice is a raspy hiss. The escort and stylist are jumping out of their seats; but Daran continues in a lowered voice. “You think they killed Jobe Cresta because of Annie? Like he gives a shit about her, as long as she dances for him? It was just a test, _involving_  her, to see what we'd do. Next domino ain't gonna be a _Cresta_. You’re an idiot if you don’t already know that.”

The escort is scolding, the stylist trying to intervene.

“Piss off.” Finnick shoves Daran off, glad for once for the stylist’s presence. “Girl's mad. Don’t blame me for pointing out the obvious, old man.”

The woman, slight-boned, and tinged an intentional shade of sky blue, places her hand on Daran’s chest.

“Help her or don’t, Odair." Daran pulls away, keeping a glare set on Finnick. "Just don’t screw around with her.”

“Little late for that.” Finnick finds his voice is less confident now. His jaw swells and aches. He forces himself to look amused. “Don’t you think?”

Before Daran answers, the President’s physician returns with a dazed-looking Annie. The crook of her left elbow is bandaged. She looks straight at Finnick, concern furrowing her brow.

Finnick turns his back to the lot of them, walking away without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyouthankyou for reading <3  
> (eventually things will actually get along here, I promise!)


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is up for grabs, whether this is a Victory Tour or a mental ward.

Physical damage disappears, thanks to the stylist team. Finnick wishes it had lingered. Maybe the cameras would not love him as much, then. It is no use. He is _‘camera-ready,’_ so says the escort.

Mags gives him a kiss on the cheek, when she sees him clenching his fists. It is hard to avoid a creepingly familiar dread that prickles up his spine, and still keep up his act. At the least, the press of nails against the flesh of smoothened palms spikes a distractive enough pain. _Coping mechanisms,_ that is what Mags had called these little things years ago. Little things to get you through the day. Tying knots is rather the less destructive of all the mechanisms they might have in District Four. Haymitch’s, well… everyone knows how he copes, neither the first nor the last to do so.

_Speaking of Abernathy…_

District Twelve is a miserable, dingy place, and Finnick wishes Snow would just put them all out of their misery. Not like they have anything to live for, anyway.

_Pathetic._

Finnick is delightfully toasted both before and during their disembarking, something about which Mags had  _(surprisingly)_ said nothing. She had, unfortunately, taken the large tube filled with that clear stuff that the Capitol calls _vodka_ out of the _(boy)_ man’s hands before he could finish it clean off. The Golden Boy had glared as best he ever could at the old woman, before he found himself laughing.

The fuzz of the alcohol makes everything pass quickly, and with much more ease. Even the greetings at District Twelve’s measly Train Station seem to drag on in milliseconds, and not minutes. There is a chill in the air, compared to District Four’s bright sun, despite the advent of spring and oncoming dawn of summer. The sky here looks grey, ashen like the faces of the miners, which the cameras refuse to film. The clouds cast everything a similarly morose tapestry.

 _(I want to go home,_ he thinks.)

Finnick sits, now, happily separated from their newest Victor by Daran, during the car ride. Mags, clearly bored beyond all relief, is seated by the stylist and escort, though her gaze flits between her co-Victors with some concern glinting in cataracted blue eyes. The second oldest of the trio still looks about ready to punch Finnick, which makes the younger man laugh because Daran is also forcing a smile. It is just so ironic.

Annie stares at her knees, fingers tugging at the hem of her dress.

The escort seems to not know what to do with any of them. He begins to explain to the stylist the benefits of coal on the average miner’s health.

Finnick snorts then pretends to cough, and he grins toothily when Daran glares at him. Mags clears her throat, nodding to Annie as if to say: _‘Stop, and help **her**.’_

 

The _Mad Girl_ is quiet, lost in her own head since the first day on the train. She has not spoken directly to Finnick, or looked at him. Annie only speaks when spoken to, which is fairly little, and Finnick does not initiate a conversation, for fear of liking things that she says. Finnick has attempted to make a few jokes, ones that made the escort hysterical, but had seemingly fallen flat to his fellow Victors. Subsequently, he had taken pills that night to help get some sleep. Annie is being drugged, too, after all. He is still trying to find that place where she goes in her dazes. Maybe this will help.

_(It won’t, but Finnick Odair is a talented liar, enough to fool himself, in this case.)_

A stumbling, inebriated Haymitch Abernathy greets Annie with a kiss on the lips, sticking his tongue in, for good measure. It certainly breaks the ice. Annie disappears from reality, drops down on District Twelve’s stage and buries her face in her knees. She is in full view of the cameras, hands clamped over her ears. Daran hisses threats to Abernathy’s manhood. Haymitch laughs, as does District Four’s Golden Boy.

Finnick would like to think that it is amusing in the way that a boat crash is amusing.

_Now we’re forcing ourselves on one another, isn’t it funny?_

He himself only stops laughing when Mags slaps him. That, and the speeches are cued in by President Snow’s personal message.

The cameras and the audience, including Four’s stylist and escort, do not seem to know what to do with any of them. There is an awkward pause. Daran manages to get Annie to stand, to read from her escort’s cards. She has the same problems she had on the stage in District Four: she does not look up from the cards, but only reads every other sentence, in a strained whisper. Daran has to lead her away from the microphone because, when she has finished with the cards, her lips continue to move wordlessly. No one in District Twelve claps. Finnick is glad.

The Mayor of Twelve, Underscore or whatever, makes some speech about being gracious for Annie’s kindness regarding the tributes. Her _‘kindness,’_ had been a quick knife to the throat for the girl tribute. Their girl had died within seconds. The boy, meanwhile, had been mauled by a bobcat mutt. It had taken nearly two hours before his cannon went off. Annie begins to laugh, only quieting when Daran physically puts his hand over her mouth. Her eyes blink up at the older man, and Finnick sees, again, that familiar innocence in her eyes. It makes him angry.

 _She should disappear,_ he thinks.

She should be gone. She should not be here, doing this. She is weak, and it makes him resent her.

 _Annie Cresta is going to suffer,_ he remembers.

But maybe she can escape in her own way.

Finnick drunkenly tells Abernathy to kiss her again. He is only half-teasing. Haymitch complies, this time during the dinner inside the Justice Building, and Finnick inconspicuously pinches her rear. Annie crumples on the floor. They have not even been served appetizers. The escort squeals, and frets. Daran carries her into another room. Murmurings and mumblings fill the void in the newest Victor’s absence.

_“-truly didn’t exaggerate-”_

_“-really is quite mad-”_

_“-should be put out of her misery-”_

_“-aren’t there places for people like that?-”_

The President's physician slips in, unnoticed, apparently, by most guests. Finnick watches him enter the room to which Daran had brought Annie. He must inject her with something, because when she returns a few minutes later, her eyes are watery, appear more hooded and heavy than they had before. There is a silver band clasped around the crook of her elbow, where one had not been earlier.

She looks out of it.

Daran had insisted is was not morphling that they are giving her.

“Good.” Finnick does not speak to anyone in particular, but Abernathy looks at him. “Drugged her.”

He should not sound so amused. He takes another drink and that _(sort of)_ makes it better.

“You must really hate this one, kid.” Haymitch comments, sloshing his glass in Annie’s direction.

Finnick does not respond. He and Haymitch linger around one another, drinking in silence for the rest of the night. At the end, back on the train, Mags smacks the back of his head, calls him _'_ _estipid boy.'_ He feels guilt, to an extent, for disappointing her, but tells her he is not sorry. He mostly _(maybe)_ means it.

It pours rain as the train departs. Mags passes the day between Twelve and Eleven combing Annie’s hair, or running her fingers through it; or humming nursery rhymes in her halting way. At dinner, the girl rests her head against the old woman’s shoulder, closes her eyes and falls asleep before dessert. Finnick feels a twinge of _something that does not feel right,_ something that he fights off, in the pit of his stomach.

Finnick does not sleep that night, but refuses to leave his compartment.

Rain is still pouring as they arrive through District Eleven’s armored gate. Annie does not look out the windows, gaze fitted on her wringing hands. She appears unaffected by everything except occasional claps of thunder.

Off the train in District Eleven, Annie is calm. Chaff gives the new Victor a hug, chucks her chin and earns a giggle. Annie covers her mouth, looking to Mags for approval; as if asking whether that reaction had been appropriate. Daran pulls them apart before the older man with a stump-arm can try anything like Abernathy. Chaff laughs when Daran makes a veiled implication about Chaff messing with the newest Victor. Seeder takes Annie in her arms, holds her a moment longer than needed. When they pull apart, the girl kisses Seeder’s cheek, and the woman responds by patting her back gently. Annie actually _smiles,_ widely. She tries to stay near Seeder after that, becomes distressed when they will not move her seat. Chaff does not tease her, instead looks at her with what might be drunken sympathy. He slips Finnick a flask of something that tastes distinctly like piss. He says something about Odair _‘needing it more.’_ Finnick smirks away what the other man might mean.

Annie is only half-there afterwards. She does not eat anything at all. Daran tries to quietly coax her, to no avail. By the time they leave, she is barely holding back tears. Finnick is so piss-drunk that he collapses on the floor of his room without showering.

District Ten does not go as well. Their Victor, Maude, must remind Annie of someone, because she wants nothing to do with her. Daran has to hold her firmly, to keep her from running off the stage. Annie whimpers at the woman’s handshake. They get through it, for what it is worth. Mags stays with the girl that evening. The old woman says Annie slept the night through, which is more than Finnick can say.

In District Nine, Annie says she is going to the bathroom, then disappears somewhere inside the Justice Building. Not wanting to cause a panic, Daran and Finnick quietly excuse themselves, to search for her. Nine’s twin Victors, Goren and Garner, thankfully read the signals and follow them out after a moment. They split up, checking each floor separately. Finnick does not say anything when he finds Annie in the Mayor’s office. She is absentmindedly reading the man’s private updates from the Capitol. Finnick might chance a look at them, himself. Secrets are his payment, after all. He hands the girl Chaff’s flask, and pills he usually saves for himself. Annie gulps them down without question, cringing at the near piss-flavor of the drink. After, Finnick leads her back to dinner. She is high soon, laughing too loudly at Goren, whose story about their grandmother's recent passing is not remotely funny. Mags hushes her and Annie covers her mouth, though she continues smiling dopily for the rest of the dinner.

That night, Annie comes into his room. Her hands run through his hair and he lays on his bed, frozen in place. They do not talk at all. She curls up, her back to him, and falls asleep. Finnick leaves the room once she is out cold. He spends the night pacing the dining car, distracting himself with any and everything possible. He drinks coffee until he shakes, refusing to let himself sleep. He also refuses to allow himself to return to his room.

He still gets an earful from Daran the next morning. He does not even attempt to apologize. Mags gives him a curious glance, though, for once, he does not earn a smack or reprimand to go with it.

He is not sorry. After all, it is Annie’s fault. _(Right?)_

Annie is more aware, in District Eight, and seems less afraid. She is hyper, though, keeps tapping her feet, then her fingers, in inconsistent rhythms. District Eight’s Mayor Tiff gives Finnick a look. All he does in response is offer the woman a cocky grin. Daran is impassive, while Mags yawns. Woof tries to hug the newest Victor, but Annie shakes her head and covers her ears with her hands. Cecelia takes her on a walk during dinner, since Annie keeps trying to leave the table. When they return, Annie tells Daran and Mags excitedly about ‘ _feeding the ducks.’_ Eight has no ducks anywhere near the town limits.

Physician Hanratty ups Annie’s medication. She sleeps through the ride to District Seven, and has to be pried out of her bed by her stylist.

District Seven introduces Johanna Mason. Fortunately, it is after the speeches, otherwise Annie would never have made it through them. Johanna’s unflinching glare triggers something in Annie without Mason saying a word. Annie starts mumbling apologies, voice straining and raising in pitch as dinner is meant to begin. As they are taking their seats, Finnick sees Johanna tweak Annie’s breast out of the corner of his eye; sees her whispering in Annie’s ear. Whatever it is, it sends Annie away more firmly to the point that she slides to the floor, curling up with her hands over her ears. The newest Victor is sent back to the train. Mags goes with her.

Finnick does not thank Johanna. He might not be grateful.

She still says, “You’re welcome, dumbass.”

_(“Why did you do that?”_

_“Why **didn’t** you?”)_

In Six, the Morphlings stare at Annie. She is incapable of stopping her own hazy laughter.

She throws up at dinner in District Five. On the train, Daran confirms to Finnick, that the physician will continue doubling her medication, until her behavior improves. Mags clucks her tongue, but says nothing.

They go straight past Four. Finnick is glad, because Bo and Aslin should not have to see their little sister like this.

(He deludes himself into thinking that they won’t have seen everything on television.)

Between Five and Three, she begins receiving three shots per day. They wipe her out. Finnick is no longer convinced that the shots are solely to balance out the chemicals in her brain. Morphling must be the major ingredient in her _‘medicine.’_ By the time the train arrives in District Three, her eyes are a constant pool of nothing, sea-green still but unseeing, face mostly inexpressive. She smiles dopily when Daran tells her to, reads every word that the escort places before her. But she does not seem to see _(or hear or feel)_ anything _(or anyone)._ Wiress makes a comment about pretty fish in dirty tanks.

It is up for grabs, whether this is a Victory Tour or a mental ward.

After the train leaves District Two, Finnick has a nightmare. It is hardly his first, but it certainly is the most vivid he has had in a while.

_(Brutus and Enobaria slit Annie’s throat and dump her blood all over Finnick,_

_hold his face in bloodied mud while President Snow takes him from behind.)_

He wakes up to a mess, pillowcase ripped and sheets twisted all around him. He flinches when he sees a petite redhead out of the corner of his eye, watching him from the doorway. His eyes sting, and he realizes he is crying. His throat is sore from screaming, and he must have punched a wall or something because his hand aches, knuckles swell. Annie does not say anything, and he lays back down. He falls asleep a second time, before he knows it. When the escort wakes him at dawn, Annie is no longer there. He wonders if that had been part of his dream.

That part, at least, had not been terrible.

In District One, she performs perfectly. Finnick feels sick, because they cheer for her. It may be forced, but he does not want to imagine what the President will have her do, if she continues to get well. When they move inside, the chilled reception and indifferent looks from One’s Victors prompt Annie to cover her ear with one hand, close her eyes, and simply sit in place, immobile and mute, until the event is over. No crying, no screaming or running away, or blabbering; just hand over an ear and silence as she disappears into her own mysterious world.

Which would President Snow prefer? A Mad Girl or a quiet, drugged whore?

That night, he is sober. He is sorry for that, later, when she comes into his room. She is speaking rapid Creel, and he cannot understand her. What he can understand, does not make sense. She gestures wildly and breaks off, tugs gruffly on her own hair.

_“Mwen rayi l'-”_

“Hush,” he cuts her off, putting a hand over her mouth before she can say more.

 _We all hate him, Annie,_ he wants to say, but keeps the words to himself.

Her eyes go wide, and she gulps visibly. He realizes his mistake, the trigger this might send, and pulls away. Her mouth hangs opened, staring at him before blinking, frowning, hands slowly reaching back up, to pull at her hair again.

“No, no.” He takes her wrists in his hands, ensuring she does not attack herself. She cringes but does not try to evade him. He seats her, gripping her firmly on the shoulders, until she begins to calm down. He lets her go when her breathing relaxes, and she nods. "Better?"

"Sorry."

She crawls into his bed. He does not have the heart to tell her no.

 _“Manke lakay,”_ she whispers. “I can’t do this.”

 _You have to,_ Finnick thinks. Instead of saying so, he runs his hand through her hair. He brushes it back from her face, looping red locks that cooperate behind her ear.

She falls asleep quickly. He stays next to her, continues running his hand through her hair. It relaxes him, reminds him of the coarse texture of ropes being knotted and twisted and shaped. And she should not be alone. He is afraid she might do something to herself if he leaves her. She has hurt herself enough in the past. He does not want that to happen again; remembers the look of her self-inflicted scrapes and scars and cuts.

 _Daran is going to kill me if I stay here,_ Finnick muses as he feels himself drifting towards slumber. _Whatever._

Annie is not a child. None of them are, not after winning the Games.

There is no use in pretending anything to the contrary.

Especially not with where they are headed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I have no self-control.)  
> thankyouthankyou for reading xoxo <3


	14. There and Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Victors receive assignments (and reminders).

_Blood. Blood drips onto the wooden interior of the little rowboat. Finnick’s nose crinkles as he cringes. Hands still continue their work, rough texture grating away at the shredded, wounded skin. But the casted rope line, creaking now against its tether to the self-made pulley system, reminds him of today’s goal. He chuckles as he sees its weight tugging the boat down portside. Bronzed hands retrieve the spear, and the boy stands, feet balancing carefully as he peers over the side. Dark blue dorsally, silvery white ventrals with deep yellow and light yellow fins, white-edged caudal fin. An albacore tuna. Big one, too. Father will be proud._

_The practiced spear pierces clear through, pools of red altering the water around it. The fish still struggles, and hands rush to pull it from the water before the sharks come out to play._

_Mare had beaten him at sparring today. Mother had been furious, asked what the point is, of sending Finnick to training since he was five years old. Mother had gotten out the belt, the one she kept next to her liquor cabinet._

_“Up against the post.”_

_Father had intervened, said to leave the boy alone._

_“He’s only nine, Nika,” father had said. “Mare’s got five years on him.”_

_(Five years, the nine-year-old huffs to himself.)_

_He holds the catch in the air. Blood and water fly off as the tail flails wildly. I’ll show them._

_“Well, he better be ready three years from now.” mother had glared, heading inside for another drink. “I’m not burying my children.”_

_Finnick falls back, and the flapping fish writhes on top of him. He grabs the slimy thing, pounds its head against the rocking boat’s hull. It finally stills, and Finnick begins to laugh. Mare has never been very good at spears, or nets. She excels at hand-to-hand. But the son can prove himself, in his own way._

_And what’s the difference between spearing a fish and spearing a person?_

_(I could win, the boy thinks. I could win, and it could be amazing._

_Finnick Odair could be the greatest Victor there ever was.)_

_“She doesn’t mean it, Finn.”_

_Father had taken his shoulders, leaning down so he was eye-level with his son. Blue eyes had been light-lidded, crinkling at the edges as father smiles. Finnick inherited his father’s smile. Everyone says so. Everything else Finnick has gotten from mother. Father’s family never let the boy forget that._

_Mrs. Odair is not one of the most popular people in Waterside. But she is one of the most beautiful._

_The oars strain the nine-year-old’s strength, and he is startled, to an extent, to see the sun setting off to the west. Dread fills his mind as he recalls it had taken him about an hour just to get this far out from the marina. He tries to row faster, tries to force himself to be more than human. Forward, up, back, ignore the distant glow of the sun dipping below the water; forward, up, back, pretend the coast is closer; forward, up, back--_

_“Halt!” the voice follows a spotlight which blinds the boy. “Hands up!”_

_No, no, **no** \--_

Finnick flinches himself awake now, eyes burning with mid-sleep resistance. And his stomach churns because he has forgotten the redhead in his bed. He has forgotten that he had his arms wrapped around her. He swallows over a lump in his throat, and she mumbles something in her sleep, before her body shifts, pressing against him.

It is not a rare thing, for Finnick to wake up with company. But this is different; this is not an assignment. And Annie is not expecting his attentive touches _or for him to--_

His hands reach up, fingers running through her hair again. He finds comfort in the texture, letting himself settle back against the pillow, pressing his shoulder into the mattress. The weight shifts the balance, now, and Annie is jostled, ever-so slightly.

"Sorry," he whispers. Her lashes are still shut firmly. He still feels that rush of something,  _that something he felt when he saw Mags and Annie together, Annie resting her head against the old woman's shoulder._

He is having trouble sleeping, and he lets himself disentangle, just enough to get his arms off of the girl's body.

_Finnick, what are you doing?_

_(No renmen li._

_Remember?)_

Cheek rests against the crisp sheets, only somewhat softened by body heat and nights of finicky slumber. Knots stop his fiddling and he smiles. No one in the Capitol ever has those. Preened and slick and shining. It is all as much of a joke as Finnick Odair's monogamy.

_But we aren’t in the Capitol. Not yet._

(He thinks, _I don’t want to let them have you, Annie._

Some wicked voice wants to know,

why he thinks he'd have any right to stop them.

_She isn't yours, Finnick._

_She belongs to Snow, now, just like you.)_

He watches her. He sees that relaxed expression, which even drugs do not bring in her waking hours. Her face is washed clean, eyes and lips natural. She actually looks like herself; like she is sixteen. Finnick wonders, hardly for the first time, if he could get that time back, if he could just have the youthful hope and innocence he had at fourteen years old. What would he give?

_What **wouldn’t** I give?_

He could do it. He knows, physically, that he could. She is sleeping soundly, small and vulnerable, even on a good day. He could do it easy. Wrap hands around her throat, or force the pillow over her face. Ignore _flailing wrists and muffled screams that try to protest--_

“Finn…”

Finnick’s hand jerks back, and he recoils, but then he checks her face; and with further mumbling, he realizes she is asleep.

 _“Se zanmi m 'yo..._ liked griddlecakes...”

He begins to pull away, but then she rolls to the left, closer to him. Her fingers rest, ghosting the skin of his arm. He stills, watching her intently.

_Don’t wake up, Annie. Don’t wake up. Stay asleep. It’ll be better._

She might become like him. The thought makes him sick. Valuable for what is in between her legs; become old and used inside, rotted away into some stinking thing, whilst the outside is spun and scrubbed to perfection every day. Auctioned off, like fish by the pound in the market.

Finnick closes his eyes.

_Count to ten, Finnick._

He remembers the mentor at Four's Career Center, giving him this advice.

_Count to ten, and begin again._

He does. It almost helps. Finnick swallows over a lump in his throat when he finishes his counting. Annie mumbles again, and his eyes open, slowly. Still asleep. The relief is overwhelming. He hesitates now, before hands reach out, begin to touch her hair again.

_Twist, twirl, untwist, braid._

Guilt blooms at the back of his mind, because what if she wakes up? Will this frighten her?

_Twist, twirl, untwist, untwirl, loop, braid._

Eyes flicker down. Freckles are splattered across her nose, paler now from days in the sun blocked out by thick layers of makeup. Her lips are mumbling, nose wrinkling before she turns her face into the pillow and she sighs against the fabric.

 _(I’ll help you, Annie,_ he thinks.

 _Liar,_ that wicked voice provides.  _You can't help anyone._

_I’ll try.)_

Hot breath comes out, puffs up some of her hair before some strands slide across her face. Finnick smiles again, and it feels strange. He settles, after a moment; stares at the ceiling and counts up to ten, again.

_One, two, three…_

__

* * *

 

“Just _what_ is going on?!”

The high-pitched exclamation of District Four’s escort bleeds through Finnick’s half-awakened sleep. Eyelids peel opened, one at a time, to find the cream-skinned man with his hands on his hips, glaring. The bird-boned stylist, lingering in the doorway, appear just as disappointed. Daran, at the stylist's side, is fuming.

_(‘She’s not a toy, Finnick.’_

_‘No renmen li.’)_

“What does it look like?” Finnick manages with a wink. Sitting up, he kicks the blanket off his legs, ruffling his hair. Next to him, Annie whimpers as her own lashes flutter opened. He tries not to let that feeling in his gut tell him _she looks pretty,_ right now. Instead, he musses her hair, and she pushes his hand away lazily. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

“Morning?” the reply is hazy, as hands rub at her eyes. She shifts, propping herself up by her elbows. Sea-green eyes rove, still sleepy, about the room, as if forgetting where she is. Awareness slowly dawns and her eyes widen, looking to Finnick. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Finnick gives her a crooked grin. The girl sits up, arms curling around herself. “Dunno about you, but I slept like a baby.”

"That doesn't make sense." Annie tilts her head, a bemused smile on her lips. “Babies are awfully fitful-”

“Enough! This won’t do, Finnick!” the escort interjects, fretting. “This simply won’t do, what with her condition!”

“Seems fine to me,” Finnick quips, flashing a toothy grin. “Right, Ann?”

Annie’s shoulders hunch upwards when she is addressed, her knees curling to her chest. She stares at the blankets that tent around her legs.

“Annie, get up.” Daran’s countenance is stern. She does not seem to hear him, and his face scowls, whether intentional or not. “Annie, _se pou yo ale!”_

The contained hatred licking at his voice is redirected from Finnick. It is not meant for the girl who is under the Golden Boy’s sheets. Annie still flinches and obeys immediately, scrambling out of bed, abashed and blushing. Daran puts an arm around her shoulders, leading her out of the compartment.

“Don’t do this again, Finnick!” the escort chastises. “We’ve enough to work on, don’t confuse the girl by-”

“By doing _what,_ exactly?” the words cut off his tongue like glass, and narrowed eyes glance between the escort and stylist.

Only he knows what they are thinking. That he is the one about to corrupt the poor little Mad Girl from District Four, seduce and then abandon her.

A bitter laugh chokes out from between his lips and Finnick finds his eyes looking towards the windows of his compartment.

_‘The key, Finnick, is to make them believe you.’_

_Finnick tries to ignore the expression on the District One Victor’s face._

_‘Every, single, one.’_

He always has to make them believe; friends, family, patrons, acquaintances. That is the problem. Stylists and escorts are included, though in reality, if their heads were not so far up their asses, they rightfully should have figured it all out years ago.

Finnick never has had that sort of luck, though. Perhaps it is for the best, for them, that they think he really just cannot keep it in his pants. Letting them see weakness, letting them know that the affairs are forced, and one-sided, _well…_ there is no room for a shameless playboy and slut to be self-pitying, now is there? There are consequences if he lets the mask fall in front of the wrong person.

_Two down: two to go;_

_Mare and Mr. Odair: Mags and Mrs. Odair._

“Don’t worry, darlings.” Finnick stretches as he rises, pulling off his shirt before smirking at the Capitolites. He purposely flexes the muscles in his arms as hands go to his hips. The muscles in his stomach flex, as well, and he lets them; watches the way the two practically drool. “I’ll try not to be too _distracting_ to the poor thing.”

“You had better, Finnick.” the escort clears his throat, before wagging a finger in Finnick’s direction. He turns back towards the hallway. “She’s already quite a mess as it is. Set a good example, and stay on your best behavior!”

 _(A good example of what?_ Finnick wonders;

_What President Snow wants?)_

“No promises.” Finnick keeps the smirk on his lips, but it feels more like a sneer.

The blue-tinged stylist, lingers in the room. With her lips tightly pursed, her mouth appears so near to resembling a beak that Finnick always has trouble retaining a laugh. To his surprise, a frown furrows her otherwise perfectly sculpted brow. She steps in the room, tilting her head to one side.

“Are you feeling quite all right?” she asks.

“Never been better.”

Of anyone on their District ‘team,’ the woman is one of the few in who Finnick can tolerate- _tolerate,_ if not necessarily _enjoy_ \- the company of. She is all right with silence, even the awkward, pregnant kind; and where the prep teams and escorts never seem to understand District reticence when it comes to gossip and fashion, she has smiled, and not mocked their _'simple-mindedness.'_ There is a moment, now, when he sees something in her eyes, something flickering. Not concern, no; but it is definitely enough _to make her think, to make her wonder…_

“Good. You’ve an appointment as soon as we get in.”

The moment is gone as quick as it arrive. She claps her hands together, tells him to get showered before the prep team arrives in an hour.

Finnick programs icy, unscented waters to drench himself.

It _(almost)_ helps clear his mind.

* * *

 

The car from the Train Station does not go to the Training Center. Finnick realizes they are taking an alternative route from the moment the automobile turns left, rather than heading straight. As they wind and wheel their way, Finnick begins to recognize the route. They are headed to the Presidential Mansion.

Annie is calm, with a familiar drowsy appearance to her eyes and limp smile. Physician Hanratty has given her two injections already, just this morning. She is up to about six shots per day. It could be more, but Daran will not even look at Finnick when he asks; and Mags merely shrugs.

Her absent smile lingers, probably stuck on Annie’s lips from earlier, as per Daran’s instructions at the station. Finnick tries to ignore the churning he feels in his stomach. The President’s favored main secretary, Honorius, greets them. He is accompanied by a masked Peacekeeper, fully armed and at attention.

The androgynous-looking male secretary takes Annie’s hand in both of his, kissing it, before he smiles brightly.

“Lovely to finally have the pleasure, dear.”

Annie smiles back, but it is distant and confused, and she stares at Honorius’s fingers as though they are foreign objects.

"Just as adorable in person, I see."

The middle-aged man tweaks Annie’s cheek before turning to the others. She flinches, ever so slightly but visibly unsettled. Finnick resists intervening.

“President Snow will see you in the garden, Miss Cresta.” Honorius nods Annie in the direction of the exterior exit; clear doors showing a brilliantly sunny garden. The Peacekeeper moves towards the door, opening it. “Right through there, go on. Your mentor will join you.”

Daran moves to follow the girl, but is stopped by a motion of Honorius’s hand.

“Oh, how silly of me.” Honorius laughs, but it does not carry to his eyes. “The President only requested Mags.”

They watch as Mags limps her way over, gentle hand setting on Annie’s shoulder. The two slip through the doorway, the Peacekeeper escorting them.

Mags and Annie. Finnick hopes the President chokes on his own blood. What good would Mags do if Annie has a fit? Who is going to look after them, when the snake has them both cornered?

_Who is going to protect either of them?_

The Golden Boy feels a tightness in his throat, knowing that, in all ten years he has come here, he has never had an escort who is armed with a gun. Bodyguards, certainly, are one thing, but an armed Peacekeeper to accompany the Mad Girl from District Four, well, it speaks volumes.

_What if Snow decides that Annie isn’t worth the trouble--_

“Mr. Odair?” Honorius prompts. Finnick looks to him, realizing he has slipped out and missed part of a conversation he is obviously meant to have heard. “Did you miss that?”

 _(This must be how Annie feels,_ he thinks.)

“’Fraid so,” Finnick forces his smile to go crooked, nodding at the Capitol Crest, gilded and menacing, behind the President’s desk. “Just admiring the view.”

“Of course.” the tone is curt, as the secretary hands Daran a cream-colored envelope. One is also offered to the Golden Boy. Finnick feels a chill ripple down his spine as he tucks his own request away into his suit’s jacket pocket. A forced smile now matches Honorius’s dismissive gestures towards the way through which they had only just entered. “The car is waiting for you both downstairs.”

Finnick hesitates, and Daran clears his throat. Finnick nods, obeys _(always so obedient, that Finnick Odair), f_ ollowing Daran out the door.

Neither man speaks, even as they enter the Training Center; Finnick’s throat is still too tight, mind filled with images of Annie, now, in the many positions his nightmares place him in.

_And Mags, Mags with a gun to her head, braiding Annie’s hair even as she screams-_

The elevator opens and they board. Daran taps the button for the rooftop, rather than Floor Four.

Finnick glances at his companion in confusion, but says nothing. The wind that greets them as they disembark is a relief, and eyes slip shut for a moment. He likes to pretend, at times, that it is a salt air breeze, fresh off the water. It is not, of course. This is mountain air, polluted by sounds and smells that reek of the Capitol; but Finnick Odair is nothing if not an excellent storyteller.

“Over here.” Daran’s voice is more gruff than it is wont to be towards Annie, but Finnick can hardly say that is a surprise. They step to the edge, the older Victor leaning his back against the handrail, meeting Finnick’s eyes with a narrowed gaze. Daran has his envelope in his hands, swats it against his other, opened palm. “You want to go first?”

Finnick shakes his head. It apparently is what Daran had expected. He is already pulling the card out from within, reading carefully before handing it over to Odair, impassive. It has gold print on both sides, each with a different set of instructions, and dates.

“Caro Wedenmer,” Finnick reads off.

He recognizes the name. Caro is the eldest son of the current Head Gamemaker. _Wedenmer, Senior,_ had screwed up majorly: he allowed a crazy girl to come out of the arena. This could be punishment, though, it seems more of a reward.

_Does it ever count as a punishment, for anyone except us?_

_Add insult to our pulsing injuries?_

“It’s not until Friday.”

“Turns eighteen this year.” Daran is staring at the elevator, his voice flat. 

Finnick stares. Daran had been a teenager, of course, when he won, but that had been twenty years ago. For the older man to have sex with an eighteen-year-old, while not the most scandalous of secrets Finnick is privy to, is still surprising. It is not the Victor’s typical pairing. Daran had been popular, on his day, but the clients who do still call on Daran are typically older. It lends some suspicion to the matter, to say the least.

“Doubt I’m his first choice,” Daran's voice sounds choked, but he looks away. Finnick does not try to meet his gaze, anyway.

He focuses on the card as if it is the most interesting thing in the world. There are details, specifics of color, appearance and activities to be done with Caro. Daran clears his throat, motions for Finnick to flip to the other side of the card. Finnick does, and freezes at the name he finds there.

“Eugenie Ossa.” the name is a whisper, because Eugenie Ossa is the only surviving descendant of Lord Ossa.

 _“Lord Ossa was the only threat Snow ever really had.”_ Finnick can hear the words in his mind now, whispered as they had been, not too long ago. Secrets, that is his payment. And Finnick has many ways of sneaking out a collection. _“Eugenie is just a child, of course, but she is still important. There’s value in her, after all. She is the only link to the Ossa fortunes.”_

 _Value in her,_ like she had been a fancy toy, set on a shelf to look at, judged from afar. Just like the Victors.

Only no one ever sees Eugenie Ossa. Finnick has only heard the name whispered that one time. She makes no social calls, no public appearances. She is a name, a birthdate, a Capitol Personal Identification Number, from what he has been able to dig up; but no face, no personality. She is the only surviving member of a family that once apparently threatened Snow’s power, a family who mysteriously disappeared within the span of a few years. For all intensive purposes, Eugenie Ossa is a ghost. She is a sixteen-year-old girl, from what Finnick could find out, who has been hidden away in the Capitol. Who knows what Snow has done to her over the years, what she believes or who she thinks Snow is; what she thinks the Capitol is. And thirty-five-year-old Daran from District Four is supposed to, _‘provide her with her first sexual encounter for her seventeenth birthday,’_ according to the card. It resonates, now, because Finnick understands this is Daran’s punishment for failing to get Annie to cooperate on the Tour:

Daran views Annie from a paternal perspective, has tried to protect her, help her; and now he is to have sex with a girl the same age. She is twenty years his junior. The girl may not even know about this ‘birthday’ present. Not just this girl, though. Caro Wedenmer may be turning eighteen, but he is still a child; he may not know about it, either.

Either Victors are rewards, punishments, or payment. There is no other in-between. No Victor screws around on their free time: their sex lives belong to the Capitol. (More specifically, to Snow.)

The timestamp for Eugenie Ossa demands _‘12:00:00 a.m.’_ Midnight, tonight, after Annie’s Victory Banquet.

Finnick looks up to see that Daran is shaking.

“It’s tonight,” the man’s voice breaks in the middle. He tries to compose himself. “That’s the point. I’m sure hers is tonight, too. It’s our own damn fault, but I thought…”

_I thought I was doing what he wanted._

The words break off, and Finnick stares, because he understands. Daran thought he was helping Annie get better, as per Snow's instructions. In reality, he was just helping the girl together enough for the President to auction her off. President Snow will separate them, now, his Victors from District Four, and watch them play their parts. It is an effective torture, especially for Daran; even when it has not occurred yet.

 _‘He only wants her so long as she dances for him.’_ Snow did not intend to fix Annie, not really. He needed her well enough to complete the Tour, well enough to distract the Capitol and entertain the wealthy enough to invest. The President needs the Capitol to invest in Annie Cresta. And, in that respect, both Finnick and Daran had failed. Finnick, in fact, had been a saboteur. He can only imagine what his own punishment will be.  _And Annie…_  

Finnick's throat tightens.

_(What is he going to make you do?)_

But the President still has two other Victors he can exploit.

Daran takes his card back, face impassive again, lips a tight line. He tucks the envelope back in his pocket. Finnick opens his own, freezing and staring at the names. There are six appointments, a different one for each night that they are here. Finnick feels sick at the name slated for their last evening: Lykos Alexander. Lykos requests leather everything.

He further will have a Plus One female present, apparently. A threesome, with one of the most wealthy men in the Capitol. A  _personal friend_ of President Coriolanus Snow.

"Bad?" Daran asks, taking the card once Finnick offers it.

"Define bad."

Finnick's grip tightens around the handrail. 

It's going to be a long week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyouthankyou for reading, I know this one's a bit longer but this is all the posting for this week, so yeah. enjoy! (or cry? in good ways?)  
> comments and such are always appreciated! <3


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which living vicariously sucks, unless you're drunk  
> (or quite delusional)

He stumbles to Remake four hours after their arrival, then _two_ hours before the Victory Banquet is meant to begin. The hickeys are gone, but the fuzz of drugs and perfume and alcohol linger on his mind. He gets a new suit, this one with a blazer set just right, just enough to show off his toned upper chest. It is almost a relief, to get new clothes, and to have the stains wiped clean off of his skin. It could be a restart, if he tricks himself in just the right way. Setting the restart on this life, pretending any of it is of his own volition.

Big joke.

_(You wouldn’t know your own will if it hit you in the face.)_

He is relieved to see Mags is sitting on the couch, waiting for him, when he gets back. She gives him a knowing smile, the one that does not carry anything except sympathy, and understanding. He sits down next to her, lets her cup his face.

_Don’t think of Annie, don’t think of Annie-_

“Are you all right?” Finnick asks, after some time. When she nods, he sighs in relief, before kissing her cheek. “I'll head downstairs in a bit. They want me there early.”

He pushes himself up, turning towards the elevator.

“Increased med,” Mags adds, giving a pause to the _(boy)_ man’s previously sure steps.

“Oh.” He does not turn to look at her, instead sets his gaze on the floor. His hand reaches up to rustle his hair. “How’d the meeting go?”

He is not sure why he asks. If they have upped the medication, that tells him all he needs to know. He still will play the fool, and Mags will let him, at least, for now. He turns to her, if hesitant, because whatever her words might say, he likes to face her when she speaks.

Mags is his home, after all.

"Girl," Mags taps her temple. "Went away." 

“Oh,” the Golden boy repeats.

A sense of dread accompanies the comprehension.

“What did he say?” Finnick’s voice is softer, and more nervous than he means it to be.

Annie had disappeared on the President. She probably covered her ears and shut her eyes and went to another world, where nothing and no one could touch her. Where even President Snow could not find her. Annie’s own personal form of resistance to the President’s will.

 _“Li te s'amuse.”_ Mags smiles, shrugging at Finnick. _“Pa enkyete,_ I look after her.”

Finnick does not want to know the consequences.

_(That’s a lie. You’re **fascinated** by the possibilities.)_

“So…” he clears his throat. “Who’s… who’s she seeing-?”

“No.” Mags clucks her tongue, rising and reaching up to tap Finnick’s cheek.

He hears the sentence she does not give: _Don’t do that; don’t ask and make it worse._

_(You’ll find out soon enough._

_He or she will likely be there, tonight, anyway.)_

Finnick leaves before his mind can betray him, before he lets the feeling crash rather than seep into him. Before he can say something which Snow will overhear and use against him.

Finnick waits downstairs in the foyer for an hour, and is grateful to be in the car alone to the Banquet. It is easiest to pretend without an audience.

* * *

 

Annie looks happy when she dances.

Finnick has forgotten, in the weeks since the festivities in District Four, what that side of her had looked like. She has a giddy and childish expression. It is hard not to see a light shining in her. It is hard for him to avoid, harder to keep from being angry with how that will be squashed and washed away in the next year. In the next twenty-four hours.

Quick on her feet, she is agile and graceful. Most of all, though, she looks happy. It might be the drugs. More than _might be,_ really. Her eyes are glassy. When he asked if she was all right earlier, she had that dopey smile on her lips before she giggled, then was pulled away by admirers. She has been kissed and stroked by so many different guests, tonight, he knows it would be impossible for her to keep composure, without being high.

Finnick watches from the bar, as the girl dances with Daran. The man spins her, and she is laughing. Her cheeks are flushed as the train of her dress swirls like a glowing tide in the lights. She looks healthy, too, radiant; and he doubts this is from body polishing alone. She might actually be having fun right now. The edge which drugs take off is gone, and allows her to spin and whirl, seeming carefree. Finnick tries not to envy her. He tries to imagine her doing this, without the after-party, without the sacrifices. Without the Games.

_(This is so wrong._

_Annie, can I have what you’re having?)_

Her stylist has dressed her all in gold. Her red hair is twisted, styled to resemble a braided crown. Rare stones, shells, and pearls native to their District are interwoven in her locks. The dress is sheer: glimmering, gold weaves, on flesh-colored fabric. She appears swathed in selected areas of gold leaf, the train dripping with the design and sparkling with each move that she makes. Her shoes, too, are golden, but flat. He wonders if they have intended to make her seem smaller than everyone else attending the event. To make her seem easy to dominate. If so, they have succeeded. She is the shortest one in the room, from what Finnick can tell; a tiny gilded treasure, among brightly colored sharks. They seem rather taken with the girl, the Capitol citizens attending the Banquet. Not in the same manner they had been with Finnick, of course, but then, he had the unique _privilege_ of being the most popular Victor in the history of the Games. This Banquet is still the event of the season, and Annie is the guest of honor, despite occasional whispers of her instability. He sees several attendees sizing the girl up, probably gaging their offering prices.

Annie is oblivious, dancing in circles, and happily drugged.

Part of Finnick is furious. The Capitol is never a place to be happy.

_(They’re trying to trick her, like on Parcel Day; like they tricked me.)_

But another part is grateful, hopeful. Snow, apparently, was amused with Annie’s ‘disappearing’ on him. Mags would not say more, when he spoke with her earlier, nor when he tried to pull her aside, at the beginning of the event. All Mags will say is that she will be looking after Annie, and for Finnick not to worry. She disappeared into the crowds shortly after the party began, despite promising to stick around Annie. Finnick would be annoyed, except he knows Mags has her reasons for everything he does.

Maybe Snow will go easy on Annie, seeing how precarious her sanity is.

_(Don’t be an idiot, Finnick, the President doesn’t go easy on anyone.)_

A hand slides up the back of the Golden Boy’s shirt, jars him from his thoughts. He glances to the side, forcing a mischievous smirk at the man he finds there.

“Lykos,” Finnick draws the name out, letting his voice run husky.

The man had been Finnick’s second assignment, back when the boy thought it had been his sex appeal that drew the man to him. Back when he thought he had a choice.

_“I’m not going to have sex with a man. I won’t do it!”_

_“My dear boy, you speak as if choice is involved.”_

(Lykos taught him what, _‘taking it from behind’_ meant.

Lykos taught him what he was being sold for, too)

What they say about Finnick Odair is a lie: _‘he never takes the same lover twice,’_ is as big a joke as, _‘he wants it that way.’_

“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Lykos purrs, tongue grazing his own lower lip. His eyes are false, currently feline in inspiration. Finnick has seen them reptilian, and even fish-inspired. They now trail Finnick’s line of vision. “Not Lucidia, far too tall, for your tastes… not Saia, she’s too attached to Brutus.” Lykos hums in amusement, lips pressing against Finnick’s ear. “You’re eyeing my lovely nymph, aren’t you, Odair?”

 _My lovely nymph._ The words hit home. Finnick’s astonishment must show, despite himself, because a chuckle sounds from the man next to him. Lykos presses a kiss to Finnick’s cheek.

“Don’t worry, Finnick, you’re still my favorite.”

It takes all of Finnick’s self-restraint to keep from clenching his fists. It takes even more, to prevent his mind from thinking of Annie with this man. Lykos loves whips, gags, chains and knives-

“Did Cori not mention it?”

Lykos frowns, and Finnick remembers how vapid, how oblivious the man can be-- of course, this is only when Lykos is separated from the whips and chains and knives in his Capitol penthouse. A slight pout covers the man’s face now as he presses himself against Finnick.

“Not like him, to be so forgetful.”

“No, indeed.” Finnick keeps his tone neutral. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in this one.”

“Exotic things _always_ interest me, Finnick.” Lykos’ voice ends on a sharp note. The man’s eyes fix on Annie as Daran dips her, and she laughs a real, full-bellied laugh. Fingernails, sharpened to a point, scrape lightly at Finnick’s skin, drag down along his spine. “Especially from District Four. She’s the perfect combination.”

Finnick knows, now, that this is precisely why Snow had met with Annie, earlier. Why Mags would not discuss anything Snow said with Finnick. Why Annie had said nothing, when Finnick asked her how she was. Why she had so much medicine injected, that she might as well be made of morphling.

Lykos is never gentle.

And Annie is so fragile.

By the time they had arrived at the Banquet, the physician had injected her twice more, and Annie looked like a hazy version of herself; a shell of a girl, all over again. The stylist had slipped a thin, golden cuff around her elbow, to hide the injection marks. He wonders what President Snow said to her, about her performances, both past and future.

Finnick cannot help the images conjured now by his traitor mind. Eyes remain on Annie but he pictures her now in Lykos’ penthouse, a cat-o-nines and set of gags lined up in _just your color, darling._ He pictures her covered in blood (pictures himself covered in her blood, too).

_Leather two sizes too tight cuff thin wrists and a collar chokes her neck--_

_she is bleeding, again, crying--_

_the metal tips to the whips offer no mercy--_

“And when will she have the pleasure of your company?” the mask remains because it is frozen, easier than giving in and screaming. It is easier to prevent himself from choking someone, if Finnick keeps smiling. “Or is she joining us for my last evening?”

“Oh, darling.” Lykos chuckles again. He leans in, conspiratorially; “She’s mine for the week.”

Finnick is unsure what he says, but it must be passably appropriate, because Lykos smiles, amused. Shock should not hit the Golden Boy so acutely, nor should Lykos’ ability to afford Annie for the entirety of her stay surprise him. Anger, though: _anger_ is the predominant emotion. There is nothing he can do to prevent this from happening.

Daran and Annie approach, the girl is smiling widely. A blush marks her cheeks, and the grin she gives Finnick makes him strain his expression until he feels ready to break. She must notice, because her smile shrinks slightly, head tilting.

“Ann.” Lykos reaches out his free hand to her shoulder, runs his nails along her arms. “So nice to finally meet you.”

Annie’s expression falters, smile becoming more distant, and confused. 

"Annie," she murmurs. "N-not Ann."

Lykos chuckles. "Of course, dear."

She glances between Finnick and Daran, looking for an introduction.

“Annie, this is Lykos.” Daran says, tone distinctly neutral. The older man meets Finnick’s gaze. At a slight nod from Odair, the older Victor seems to understand. “Lykos Alexander.”

Finnick watches realization slowly dawn on the younger girl. It takes time, or at least longer than it normally would, because of the disorienting medication they have her on. He fears his face will fall, whether for Annie or himself, he is unsure. He wishes she were on a train home.

(He thinks, _This man is going to have you for the next week, Annie._

He thinks, _I should’ve killed you when I had the chance._

_I am so sorry.)_

“He’s the head designer at CirceCorps, here in the Capitol.” Daran trains his eyes on a spot just above Lykos’ head, arm slipping away from Annie. “Mr. Alexander, this is Annie Cresta.”

He basically funds the Games themselves. CirceCorps is behind the genetic experimentations which design mutts, among other things. He is, after the President, one of the wealthiest and most _(self-)_ important figures in the Capitol. Lykos will no doubt enlighten Annie regarding that information soon enough.

“Oh.” is the girl’s soft retort. Annie blinks, quickly now. There is a pause, before she tentatively takes the man’s hand in her own. “It’s… nice to meet you.”

She does not meet the patron’s gaze. Finnick realizes what her lengthy discussion with President Snow must have involved; and why they had drugged her so much. Lykos is a sadist, he is notorious among the Victors for it. She is handling this better than Finnick would have expected. He wonders how much Snow told her.

_(Did Mags warn her?_

_Does she know what this man is going to do to her?)_

Lykos removes himself from Finnick, stepping further into Annie’s space, to place a light kiss to her lips. She seems to pale, although Finnick wonders if it is his imagination.

"Nice to finally meet you, too," the man replies. "I've been looking forward to getting to know you, for quite some time. I was quite disappointed that the Amarans got to meet you, before I did."

The distance in her eyes shows through. Lykos runs his hands down along her arms _(they always like to touch their prizes, here)._ His other hand slides to the small of her back.

“Say goodnight, dear,” Lykos instructs.

“Goodnight.” Annie complies quietly, eyes locked on the floor.

The man leads her to the dance floor, and she follows obediently. Finnick retrieves a pill from his pocket, dropping it in a straight shot of whiskey. He chugs the whole thing.

_Sleep tight, sweet prince._

(Or not.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible person, sorry not sorry! happy Tuesday/almost-Wednesday! comments etc. are always appreciated, I love getting feedback from y'all.  
> thankyouthankyou for reading! <3


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disturbia is daily life. Although, 'life' is a generous term.
> 
> *mega-trigger-warning this gets quite dark (or darker? than before)*

Four nights pass. Four nights, one hour, and sixteen minutes, to be exact.

(But Finnick Odair isn’t counting, oh, no,

only foolish boys would do that, over a silly little mad girl.)

He still has that weak spot for _(weak)_ sweet things, but that can be ignored when he is sliding from bed to bed, drink to drink, cheek to cheek.

In these four nights, one hour, and sixteen minutes, he has had five appointments, six preventative shots; plus eight million self-dosages and intentional male enhancements _(at least, he thinks that’s the closest amount),_ in pill, powder, and liquid form. He loses count, when there is nothing in it for him.

_“Numbers were never my strong suit, Caesar,” the fourteen-year-old had joked._

_“I always had a different hobby.”_

_He said it with a wink that made the viewers sigh._

(Sometimes he wonders, if he’d sealed his own coffin with that line.

If this all is a way to make him eat his own words.)

The appointments, at least, have lent some delicious treats, to be stored away in his precious treasure chest. He is not really sure why he does it, only that he feels compelled to. He stores them in his mind, as if one day, they might actually do some good other than sitting as blackmail in the Golden Boy's mental pocket. He knows that will not be, but at least it leaves him feeling something other than wretched and used. Better than looking at jeweled trinkets from assailants and forcing a smile.

Annie does not come back to the Training Center at night. Instead, the stylist team goes to her, each morning. Finnick tries to weasel information out of Mags, daily, till he is blue in the face; till he finally gives in and asks directly, how the girl is. The old woman accompanies the stylists there and back, each day, apparently at the behest of the President. Mags will not say anything, except for Finnick to take care of himself, and to mind his own business. He remembers her cautioning,  _No renmen li,_ but he needs to know. The older woman still refuses to humor him, a curious glance before she taps him.

The stylist team, at least, informs Finnick of how wonderful the newest Victor looks. Biased and idiotic as they might be, they see her at the Alexander penthouse, touch her up. They come back speaking of how _lovely_ Mr. Alexander is, and how _well_ Annie is behaving.

_“Being in the Capitol really does wonders for, she is so **calm**! No outbursts or anything!”_

_"She has **much** better control over herself, he really has been such a blessing for her!"_

They do not mention Doctor Hanratty drugging the girl, although Finnick is sure the physician is keeping her highly medicated. He hopes he is, at least. He does not want Annie to remember any of this.

Daran is drowning himself, drinking and getting high. He hides in his room at the Training Center. Finnick catches him, some nights, though, going down to the Training Room. He surmises this is the man’s version of an escape, or of catharsis. Daran has been punished, indeed. He tries to wash Eugenie Ossa from his memory, but it is not as easy even as washing blood from mink. Eugenie did not know about her ‘present’ until Daran laid her onto the bed.

Finnick had never seen the older man full-on cry before, until Daran came back from that appointment. He is going to need to pull himself together, for his appointment Friday, but for now, the Victor can wallow in self-pity. Daran has nothing here to stay strong for, after all. Finnick wonders, if Annie were staying in the Center with them, whether it would make things better or worse, for any of them.

Four nights, one hour, and sixteen minutes later, Finnick attends an after-dinner party at the home of this evening's patron, Luca or Luna _or something._  He cannot keep a grasp of her identity. She is terribly dim-witted and knows nothing of any interest.

_Whatever._

It serves his character.

_(Finnick Odair is a playboy, don’t you know?_

_He’ll sleep with anyone!)_

It is pure chance that lets him see the newest Victor from District Four. Annie Cresta is Lykos’ date for the evening. Natural, of course, since she has been in his custody  _(spotted and seen with and photographed and gossiped about until Finnick wants to scream)_ since the night of the Banquet. She may have her issues, but she is still a valued collector's item. It is strange, though, for Lykos likes to keep his affairs under the rug. Most do, here, unless they have a date with District Four's Golden Boy _(he is something to be bragged about, after all)._  Showy as Lykos may be, Finnick is the only other Victor the man has ever publicly displayed. An escapade with a Victor like Annie Cresta would typically be done with the utmost discretion, and Finnick would have thought Lykos to be no exception.

He must favor Annie, if he is taking her out and about. Finnick ignores that notion. He knows what that usually means, for a Capitol citizen to take a shine to a Victor. She would become the princess in the locked tower, like in children's stories.

_(I can't let that happen._

_What're **you** going to do about it?)_

It is late. The evening is dark and cool, as the dinner party begins in the courtyard garden at Lyla or Lola’s _or whoever’s_ private estate. The Capitolites are still stuffing themselves. They _pardon themselves_ to the toilet every so often, to vomit in order to be able to consume more. Annie seems vacant, from what he can see, as they partake in the bounty. Lykos does not even try to keep his hands off of the girl. Finnick fleetingly wonders how many shots per day the physician has been giving her. Annie’s eyes never raise from the floor, and that golden cuff from the other night lingers on the crook of her elbow. Where Lykos goes, she follows, and Finnick watches when the man’s lips consume her, how she disappears.

 _He has trained her,_ Finnick considers with a jolt of disgust. They are drugging and training and abusing her. And if he were not himself rooted to his own schedule with threats galore, he could easily find it in himself to search out weapons to slit the man’s throat.

Instead, Finnick imagines reversing the roles, torturing the man; beating Lykos to a pulp with his own whips.

 _(_ _But Annie--_

_No renmen li, Finnick._

_Don’t be stupid, you can’t do anything for her.)_

Lykos moves on to others, pulls Annie with him, has her touching others, clearly pleasing himself. He hands her drink after drink. At one point, the man grabs her, sliding something into her mouth forcefully.

_(Drugs, he's giving her some sort of drug._

_Annie, what is he doing to you?)_

More than one stranger touches her, feels her up, kisses her. Annie does nothing, no crying or protests. She quivers, though, is clearly withdrawing into her own mind. Lykos seems delighted.

 _Exotic,_ the man had called the sixteen-year-old.

Fingers twitch and he imagines how Lykos will look, when he stops breathing.

He could do it, he knows he could. But, instead, he slides his hands along Lana or Lua  _or something_ _'s_ hips.

He watches as Alexander leads Annie into the back drawing room. Private quarters, where the hostess's personal Avoxes lay on their backs, with platters of food heated by their nude bodies. Finnick’s date brings him to this section, as well. He does not try to protest _(never does, not anymore)._ He kisses Lucy or Lizzy, _or whatever,_ dizzy, lets her slip and slide about the group.

 _Polyamory,_ that is what they call it, among other things.

Finnick does not know what else to label it. For him, this is agony.

Lora or Loca _or whatever_ leaves his side with a kiss, and Finnick gives a wink to her retreating back. He retreats, inconspicuously as he can manage, to a quiet alcove.

Finnick is too busy acting to notice his company in the corner of the room, until a hand finds his wrist. He looks down, sees a glass filled with pink liquid in her free hand. He stares, because Annie is here, Annie is touching him. Annie is seeking him out _(for comfort,_ he knows). He should not Lykos is over by the hot bath, taking off his suit and laughing, loudly.

“'Lo,” she mumbles in greeting, though it sounds more like a question. There is a timidness to her; and her face does not turn toward him.

“Hello.” Finnick tries to find a balance between being reserved and still playing his cocky role. He fails on both accounts. “Long time, no see.”

She does not say anything. She is in profile, and he studies her for a moment.

"You look good," Finnick initiates, with a forced smile. "The Capitol's agreeing with you."

"Thank you," she whispers, nearly inaudible.

"Almost as good as me," Finnick tries a joke. He gets no response, and looks away.

There is a long silence between them, though the party seems to raise in volume each second.

“He gave me-” she starts in a soft, breathlessly quick tone. Eyes are still on the floor. Her forefinger delicately flits upwards, pointing to her own neck. A line of delicate, perfectly white pearls, laces around in a lovely choker. She swallows and he watches the skin of her throat tickle against the strand’s clasp, which has slid in front. “Things. In-- Games, says he sent…”

She trails off, but Finnick understands her. Annie had received food and medicine, in the Arena. She would have died, especially without the medicine. She had a festering wound to her stomach, after the confrontation which led to Dom’s death. Of course, those who had sponsored her now expect her to repay the favor. It had been the same, with Finnick’s trident. Finnick had not known Lykos to be among that group, for Annie, though.

Lykos and the Amarans, both, which is a surprise. The two typically invest in Careers; though there have been _(strangled)_ whispers about the Amarans’ involvement with Wiress, District Three’s only living Victor. She is about as far from a Career as possible. The older woman is as unstable as Annie, if not more so.

They must favor the _‘exotic’_ more than they favor _'Career'_.

Fragile people are easier to hurt. Certainly are more entertaining, in that respect.

“I-it’s valuable.” Annie motions to the necklace again, as though uncertain what else to do. "He says."

“I’m sure it is.” Finnick responds, trying to be gentle when he feels like ripping the thing off of her neck. “It’s beautiful-”

 _“Pa vle li.”_ she adds, her voice cracking. She inhales sharply, hand holding the cup shaking, unintentionally.

"Shh, don't-"

He stops himself when she shakes her head with a shudder, hair draping like a curtain over her face as she looks down. Shoulders raise, some self-defense that does not really defend her at all.

"Annie."

Instinct drives Finnick to brush her hair back from her face. She does not pull away. He needs to see how bad it is; in her eyes, in her facial expression. She gives away no hints, though she turns her face to him. Her eyes lack focus, rove over his face without pausing at any single point. She seems to see right through him.

"Fin-nick,"she sing-songs to him, eyes coming to rest on his throat.  _"Oh-dare_ you are!"

His thumb rests on her temple, as she lets out a breathless giggle. She is in a haze, despite her seeming lucidity before; she is coming and going, probably from whatever amount of _‘medicine’_ Hanratty has her on. Finnick cannot see any scarring or bruising on her. He wants to know, even more so, then, what the Capitol man has been doing to her.

Is it all mental? Or have they just polished away the physical?

Lykos is always physical. The beatings and scarrings must be polished away, then, after each _'session.'_  He is not making her keep scars up to the last day, though. That is something which the man usually requests of his toys; for that, at least, Annie can be grateful. Lykos is not keeping her caged away, like a battered bird, either. It has to count as some small concession.

Finnick’s hand pulls away, before he rethinks the motion. He reaches back, this time to fiddle with Annie's necklace. He adjusts the clasp so that it is at the back of her neck, tucked neatly under her loose, wavy hair.

“Make a wish,” he says, half-hearted.

She is watching him, eyes floating up to meet his. Her head tilts. He forces a smile. He wants to ask, _is he hurting you, is he being vicious, did he pull out the cat-o-nines?_ but from the look on her face, from the way she has been acting at this party, he already knows. Fear and sadness are confused but both emote from her; and he wishes he could be in her head, since he cannot send her home. Instead, he asks the simple questions _(those are easiest)._

“Like my suit, by the way?” Finnick's grin turns crooked, and he motions to himself. His _'suit'_ is a half-assed vest with cutoff sleeves, and white pants that are so tight, he might as well have painted them on. "They'll call it District Four casual."

"Everyone'd laugh." Annie says, head tilting. "Looks silly."

He understands her meaning, _Everyone at home would laugh at you, Finnick._ The Golden Boy grins.

"Not when they see this face to match it."

"They'd all swoon?" she asks. It would be teasing, only there is an uncertainty her tone.

Finnick winks. "Most certainly."

Annie smiles but it is faint on painted lips. She looks back to her feet. A high-pitched laugh carries across to them. It belongs to Lula or Lola _or whatever,_ as she presses herself against Lykos. Both laugh hysterically. Annie shifts closer to Finnick, her hand returning to his wrist. He disentangles himself momentarily, in order to, instead, lace his fingers with hers.

They are forgotten here, in the corner.  The partying and drinking and gorging occurs around them. It is a rarity, for him, while a constant, for her. Finnick wills things to stay this way _forever and ever and a day. S_ taying invisible with her would be better, and not just for her. It is pointless, he knows, but so damned tempting. Finnick Odair never gets to be invisible, just like he never gets to be fully-clothed.

Even in a full-piece suit, he's getting undressed mentally. He really cannot win.

A cork pops, loudly. Annie flinches. She closes her eyes, and he knows she is going to go away.

 _(Good,_ he thinks.)

He takes her drink. The hand which had been holding her glass lingers in midair a moment. When it drops, suddenly aware of the missing weight, Annie's eyes flutter opened. Her head tilts away from him, a hand edging up to rub her neck. He pulls out one of the pills he uses for appointments: one that mixes with liquids to make rough nights pass on clouds and rainbows. If she finds it strange that he drops a foreign object into her drink, if she sees the motion at all, Annie does not comment. He watches the substance dissolve, swirls her cup until white bubbles begin to dissipate back into pink. He holds the cup out, offering it back to her. She takes it carefully. She looks to him, and the wide-eyed stare catches him off-guard.

 _“Mèsi,”_ she says.

She trusts him. It is pure and naive and so, so damned sweet.

_(No renmen li, Finnick._

He wants to die.)

“Of course.”

She begins to drain the cup all at once. Before she reaches bottom, Finnick is pulled away by Lina or Leda _or whatever._ He lets Lena or Lira, _or whatever,_ touch him, kiss him--

_hands always touch him, and he lets them; dissociates,_

_lets his body be theirs for tonight, hers for the taking, for the fucking,_

_for the burning of wax and matches, scraping nails, and biting, forked tongues--_

_(no one ever taught him how to fake it_

_he learned early on, all by himself_

_he learned by imitating other men_

_it's easy when you're fulfilling someone's fantasy_

_to make them think they're gifted you something precious.)_

_“That Finnick Odair is quite a charmer,” they say_

_without ever saying how good of an actor he is_

_(he’s not sure what sound he’d make, if he ever climaxed for real)_

_“He really makes an impression.”_

Polyamory, he titles it in his head, fashions it away in that pretty locked box where Finnick keeps the abuses he has catalogued from the Capitol. Polyamory. It sounds like a sin, after all the shit they have put him through. Secrets stay in his separate treasure box, one he can open and close with so much more ease. Polyamory is not so simple, he has found.

The mind can get used to anything.

So can the body.

_Isn’t that right, Finnick?_

 

* * *

 

The leather collar that knots around the front of his neck is familiar. It makes him feel nauseous, that he should be accustomed to this sort of treatment.

An Avox had allowed him entry to the upscale _(even for Capitol standards)_  penthouse, though Finnick remembers the layout like the back of his hand. He had entered the clear-glass elevator, watching as the floor disappears from beneath his feet. It is not only illusion; the elevator is entirely glass, so that Finnick even feels as much of a lurch in his stomach as he would had this been the manner in which he had been retrieved from the Arena.

Arriving at the the penthouse's entryway, the elevator slows, before beeping, clearly awaiting permission before the doors open. A different Avox, one clad only in a leather thong as per Lykos' preferences, bows and retreats, before ushering Finnick into the grand dining room. A large glass table fills the room, though only two chairs, one at either head, are set. Only one, crystal dining set is out. Finnick knows what this means.

_They'll be dining on their knees tonight._

Bile fills his mouth, and at the feel of claws up his skin, Finnick forces himself to maintain composure.

"Finnick, darling," Lykos murmurs. Nails press into the flesh of the  _(boy)_ man's back, and Finnick flashes a disarming smile. "You're looking positively radiant."

"All for you, of course." Finnick lets his voice fry at the edges, meeting the man's eyes before letting his hands find their course to the patron's content. "I don't lend this face out for just anyone."

_Oh, yes, you do, Finnick._

(but that's neither here nor there.)

"Tsk, tsk, my boy." Lykos' slap stings against Finnick's skin, almost enough to give some real relief. "Don't forget, we're not alone tonight."

Jaw clenches, luckily giving the smile a malicious edge rather than furious _because Annie--_

"Of course," Finnick forces a light laugh. "Where is our dear mermaid?"

Lykos retrieves a little whistle from his pocket, giving a harsh blow to the metal piece. Within minutes, Annie appears from the area Finnick knows to be the bedroom. 

_And, damnit damnit damnit--_

A small, strapless, leather dress which looks as if it is tight enough to be her skin. Feet are bare, as is the rest of her, except for her elbow, which bears the golden cuff, and her neck. She wears a collar which matches Finnick's own. Her red hair is plaited into two long, fishtail braids. The tails fall over her shoulders and that _damned pearl necklace--_

Her eyes are empty pools of nothing, gaze downcast, fixed on the floor. Her shoulders seem relaxed, but in the capacity that only makes Finnick think that she has given up entirely. Or, she is too high to even be aware of escaping or resisting. Her skin is unblemished, that is the only thing Finnick can tell for sure remains undamaged. The rest of her, not so much.

"Come, Ann," Lykos murmurs, sliding an arm around her once she has obeyed. "I can't tell you how _pleased_ I am to have both of you at once."

"It's certainly unprecedented." Finnick avoids looking at Annie. It is too hard to find a way to get through this, if he sees her so... far-gone.

"I trust you're hungry, Finnick?"

"Famished," Finnick lets the words take on their own meaning, grinning when Lykos chuckles in response.

Lykos takes the leads to his two Victors' collars, one in each hand, and leads them to the table. More specifically, he leads them to where they will sit on their knees, and he will feed them each, by hand.

 

* * *

 

 The man has fallen asleep.

 _He started with Annie, caressing her hair before cupping her chin, tugging up until she rose._  

It will not last. Finnick knows it _cannot;_ but it will do for now. Until the man feels able; until Finnick's drugs have kicked back in, making him more capable. Until Finnick is no longer numb from the past six times he has let himself get taken from behind, whipped and beaten.

(Until he can figure out what  _'Oh, yes,'_ would sound like, if he were actually enjoying it.)

_An Avox brings in Lykos' riding crop, retrieved after a swift, high-pitched note on his whistle._

They have been instructed to slumber above the blankets, at Lykos' feet, curled up like little kittens, only more battered and bruised.

What a sight to behold, to be sure.

They have not gotten to knife-play, not yet.

_The crop traces up her lines from her hips; he puts pressure against the skin as it skids across the throat,_

_up, up, up, along the jawline, pausing at the chin._

_He traces her lips, before the riding crop pops between them, unopposed._

_Her eyes remain unfocused. There is no flinching, no shuddering._

Annie stares into blank space. Finnick, facing her, tries to shut her out without closing his eyes.

_Gleeful feline eyes accompany a sneer as Lykos looks to Finnick next._

_"You taught her so well, darling."_

He doesn't know how she does it. He thinks, maybe, he doesn't want to know.

_"I really can't take credit." Finnick lets his hand slide up Lykos' thigh. He cannot meet Annie's gaze, but sets his sights on the patron._

_"But, say I did... can the student compare to the **original**?"_

_"Oh, no," Lykos' tongue runs across his lips. "You, my darling, are certainly one of a kind."_

_Finnick fixes a crooked grin to match a wink. "Damn right I am."_

"Why?"

The hoarse question drags Finnick out of the day _(mare)_ dream. He blinks Annie's sea-green eyes into focus.

"Why did you...?"

_"Would you like to break her in, darling?"_

_"Oh, Lykos." how Finnick manages a pout is beyond himself. "Haven't you missed me at **all**?"_

"Hush," he murmurs. He wants to reach out, brush strands of her hair from her eyes, but he does not dare touch her. "Go to sleep."

She shuts her eyes, and he hopes maybe she thinks that this is just a nightmare. He shuts his own eyes, and hopes maybe they both will meet up in a dreamland. In _her_ dreamland. Maybe they can live in oblivion without the pain that their lives have caused them. 

_The pain that the bloody **Capitol** has given them._

"Was it real, Finnick?" she asks, in a whisper.

"No," he lies, though his eyes open again.

_No, you didn't see me bent over, Annie;_

_no, he didn't make you whip me with the cat-o-nines._

If he does not let her think it has really happened, then, it is easier for him to pretend, too. It had not been her. That is what matters, to him. She had already been through too much.

"You made sure he didn't touch me?" she presses. Her eyes are still shut, though her forehead is pinched. "Finnick-?"

"Shh."

"But you let me hit you-?"

He reaches across, puts a finger on her lips, and she stills. Lykos shifts under the blankets.

_"Mèsi."_

He's glad, when Lykos tells them to _'_ _clean up,'_  before they move on to knives, to find a stash of drugs in the toilet cabinet.

 _"Mèsi,"_ she says again.

Once they are high, he feels _maybe_ he _almost sort of_ deserves her thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, I know this is incredibly disturbing and I am so sorry, but the idea of having to pretend to enjoy BDSM when you're non-consenting is just so unsettling to me and I can't imagine that all of Finnick's dates were okay with one-and-done, love-me-leave-me, one-night-stands; but that some really wanted to inflict their own mark on their prizes and. Yeah.  
> thankyouthankyou for reading. questions? thoughts? feedback and such are always appreciated.  
> (please don't hate me!) <3


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They play spot-the-leapers, like little kids in Four would count jumping dolphins or breaching whales. Only she sees things he cannot, and vice versa. 
> 
> (or, druggy fluff-date [kinda])

_Feather dreams make light, numbed fingers seem to trail satin instead of cool metal._

_He tries containing himself in the glare of the lights, tries to not make crude gestures or laugh uncontrollably. The Repair Team is on top of him, but his fidgety twitching leads them to set him back against the table several times._

_He might have punched one of them._

_He won’t be the only one getting Repaired tonight._

_Someone pats his back and he’s in the hallway, awkward black moments interrupting line of sight._

_They undress him, stand him up; cold air presses against hot skin. He starts laughing._

_They’re sending him off again? They’re fucking him already? Oh goody-good._

_“Through there, Mr. Odair. You’re all done.”_

_There’s a voice but Finnick’s not sure of the face or the body._

_(is there a body? am I imagining things?)_

_“Hello!” he booms out, because the girl is waiting for him. Her clothes are different, more shielding than before. She has no bruises or cuts that he can see, and relief bubbles and forms his lips into a bright smile. He pulls her into a hug before he knows, and she squeals, giggles. “Hello, lovely.”_

_The starched cloth of his shirt_

_(I’m wearing a shirt that isn’t leather?)_

_crinkles when she hugs him back, but it’s nice, to hold someone and not be expected to do more._

_They’re in the car. He’s leaning his head back. There’s singing. It isn’t him singing, it’s her, and her voice is awful, but there are dirty shanties from the docks Bo works on. Finnick’s laughing, because they must have been edited for Annie’s precious ears. Since when does rut rhyme with boom, and since when does a man look for a pearl between the claws of a crab?_

_“Fin-nick?” her singsong cuts his name into two separate sounds, one high and one low._

_“An-nie,” he sings back, holding on to the latter half of her name with a high-pitched squeal that made her burst into hysterics. Hazy, but laughter nonetheless._

_“Oh-dare, you are!”_

_“Of Cresta, I am!”_

_She giggles and pinches his nose. He musses her hair. Things are blurry, twinkling, whirling by. She holds his hand. He focuses on that because it’s simple._

_He throws her over his shoulder, as they get on the elevator. She laughs in a tut-tut-tut and pokes his rear. He shuts his eyes, with her telling him how badly she wants to go to the zoo._

_The door to Floor Four dings. He thinks he tells someone to fuck off. He doesn’t think it was Annie, but he forgets about it quickly because colors merge with sights and sounds and he’s slamming the door, but he is not certain why._

_“Finnick, Finnick, Finnick!” she grabs his hands._

_“Annie, Annie, Annie!”_

_She begins to twirl them in circles. They’re on his bed. The circles continue. Red hair is flying. She’s giddy and giggling and light and airy. He thinks he sees that light in her but it’s blinding, now, and he’s starting to feel dizzy, and sick._

_He stops her, in order to collapse. She hops about on the large bed for a bit longer, bouncing the bed, him along with it; before jumping, curling up, and landing with a thump against the mattress. Her face is inches from his. He reaches out, tweaking her nose playfully. She kisses his cheek, but pulls away, covering her lips with her fingers._

_“It’s okay,” he says quickly, because it is._

_He feels that same hyper, pounding thud as blood pulses in her ears. She probably feels it: the same daydream, the haze and the daze and beautiful glorious lack of inhibition and sobriety._

_“It’s okay,” he repeats, because she begins to sit up, looking towards the door._

_“You like secrets?” Annie asks, voice wavering._

_“I love them, honey.” Finnick reaches out, twirls a lock of her hair between his thumb and forefinger._

_(She is honey, he thinks. She is sweet and safe and home-spun.)_

_She pays no attention as he sits up, begins to turn her long hair into a complicated, knotting experiment._

_“Any you’d like to tell?” he purposely leans his mouth in, lets hot breath press against her ear._

_Annie giggles, but she is not looking at him. She twirls a little memory stick between two fingers. He wonders where it came from. She puts fingers over his lips, as if sensing his curiosity, then slides it into his pants pocket. She kisses his cheek again. It is simple, and kind, and gentle, and offering; not desirous._

_“You’re good, Finnick,” she says abruptly. “Keep my secret, okay?”_

_“Okay.”_

_She then returns to talking about the zoo._

_They play spot-the-leapers, like little kids in Four would count jumping dolphins or breaching whales. Only she sees things he cannot, and vice versa. They’re nesting and he hugs her, and says it’s okay again, even though he doesn’t really have a reason as to why. It seems necessary. She giggles and says he looks like he has algae in his eyes sometimes._

_ Colors whirl. _

_When things settle, she is belly-down, on his bed, splayed out, facing away from him. She is slumbering soundly._

_He falls asleep for what feels to be the first time in ages._

* * *

 

Her hand is on his chest. Fingers curl ever-so-slight in his shirt, and just above his heart. Her head lays next to his shoulder. Mouth is hanging opened, and pillow-marks crease her cheek.

Sound asleep.

_Peaceful._

He does not remember curling up in bed with her. He barely remembers coming back to the Training Center. They had stumbled out of Lykos Alexander’s infamous penthouse at some point, he knows, when it had been dark outside. Mostly dark, that is, for the lights in the Capitol never really do go out.

The two of them wear fresh night-clothes. Silken slacks and shirts, both in clothing meant for Finnick, straight out of his closet. He does not remember why. Maybe he asked her to stay, or perhaps the other way around, but either way it does not matter. His clothing is massive, on her, but still, it does for a night’s rest. Or, rather, had done.

Finnick’s body aches, even though he has hardly moved a muscle, other than in his neck. His head feels made of hot air and shattering glass. He can deal with this, he knows. He has a thousand times before. The bruises and marks do not show, as they would normally, for anyone whipped and chained (and raped) and cut up. Nothing marrs their bodies. That would bring up too many questions if the cameras were to see. No, they have returned with fresh, rosy-cheeked skin. Smoothe to the touch.

 _It’s wrong,_ Finnick thinks. _But it will be easier to tell Annie it never happened now, right?_

Finnick would be glad, to know it had been real, that now it is over _(not another nightmare impossible to escape)._ He has to do with mental reassurance: either escaping with Annie to a dreamland, or over-saturating himself with the reality, actually becoming the Capitol darling he pretends to be.

Despite the polishing, he is too sore to attempt to sit up. Still not new to him. But at least it lets him know, lets him keep that anger, let it burn inside of him.

_Count to ten, and begin again._

And he does. He lays there, after. He counts the tiles on the ceiling, and lets Annie continue to sleep. Sleeping little mermaid girl _(can’t call her a nymph, not after Lykos called her that)._ He wonders, now, if he could still do it. He might not. She is sweet, and he might be in danger of caring enough.

If he could slip a pillow over her right now, asphyxiate her into a gentle death…

It would be kinder.

_(I’m not strong enough to be that sort of kind._

He thinks, _You’re too close to decent._

_It hurts.)_

[I might want you around more than I should

I don’t know what that means]

He likes the pretty little Mad Girl, and liking people never ends well.

The door to the room opens. Daran is there, watching Finnick intently. The older man looks deflated, but hardly shocked.

“I told you not to screw around with her.” Daran sounds as hoarse as his eyes are tired. He still manages a glare. _“Ou moun sòt mèrdik,_ Finnick.”

“Should I’ve left her with Lykos?” the Golden Boy spits back. The words taste like ash on his tongue. He forces his face back into its mask. "She's just as safe with me as I am with her."

Finnick still hopes she will think it was just a bad dream.

The noisy conversation slowly stirs Annie. Her eyes flutter opened, staring at Finnick for a long time. She seems to be trying to remember who he is, and where she is. The drugs are a contributing factor. Her hand still lingers on his chest, a moment longer. When it slips away, Finnick ignores how the space cools in the absence of her touch. She sits up, glancing sleepily still, between the two men.

“Sati’s waiting for you.” Daran says carefully. His eyes are on Finnick, though he speaks to Annie.

“Who?” her eyes flicker with confusion.

“Your stylist, Annie.” Finnick clears his throat and shifts away. He rises from the bed, turns his back to the other two, beginning to strip his night-clothes. “Don’t keep her waiting.”

He does not look back until he hears Annie rise from the bed, say something like, _‘see you later.’_ The door shuts. Finnick turns, giving a start when he sees that Daran has lingered behind.

“I’m sorry.” Finnick is uncertain whether he is apologizing to, or for himself.

Perhaps he is intending it to be for Daran. He is apologizing to Annie, more than anything; for all the good that does. He cannot do it to her face, but at least the words are out there. He never has claimed to be the courageous type.

“I get why you want me to stay away.”

Daran does not respond.

“But it’s not going to make a difference-”

“Take a shower.” is the response from the older Victor. “Last-minute appointment.”

“What?” Finnick turns, face contorting in disgust.

“You won’t be going to Remake till after.” Daran tosses a white rose onto the bed before he leaves.

Finnick vomits in the shower. For once, he is grateful for the vile, perfumed water here, as it washes across his soiled skin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, yeah. sort of lighter? ish?  
> thankyouthankyou for reading, and again, comments / etc are always appreciated! this will start picking up in a little bit, sort of slow, so let me know if it's TOO slow okay? okay. happy (post-) hump day! <3


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Count to ten, and begin again.
> 
> Secrets, meetings, and nightmares.
> 
> (or, really long ways around telling Finnick he is screwed.)

There is a red strip on one side of the memory stick. The stick is octagonal, though barely the width of his own pinky finger. At one end, there is a small hollow tip of metal, meant to enable wirings to interact when placed into a console here in the Capitol.

Finnick does not understand how Annie got her hands on this.

Does Lykos know?

Did Lykos give this as some sort of present?

He could ask Annie, he knows. The problem is, what will her reaction be? Would she even remember, in the best of moments? Finnick doubts her. She is sweet, and drugged, and damaged, and he doubts her ability to be lucid enough in her own memories.

And so, as he turns the stick over in his fingers, the only solution which pops into his head is his one constant.

_Mags._

He does not know what else to do.

There is a rapping on the door, Sati chirping about Finnick’s car waiting for him downstairs. He waits a moment longer, tries to think up what to do, but in a split second the door is opening and Finnick is turned, smiling disarmingly, and sliding his hand into his pocket, memory stick engulfed in his palm.

“One moment, darling,” Finnick winks. “Can’t leave without saying good morning to my favorite lady.”

He goes to Mags, where she is seated at breakfast. Daran glares. Annie does not appear to register the Golden Boy’s presence, but continues eating, smiling happily. Mags frowns as her boy leans down, kissing her cheek. She takes a moment, to cup his face in her palms; and he feels himself falter, under her gaze. He feels a thousand questions piercing him like javelins. Since they have an audience, he gives a wink, before sliding his hand into hers; and with it, the little trinket which Annie brought home. Mags feels the weight he is passing, for her eyes widen before she catches herself. Instead of asking, she smiles toothlessly, and nods. A subtle motion passes the memory stick into her own shirt pocket.

_Mags, the best mentor the world could ever give._

“Meeting?” Annie’s voice, pitching high at the end of the word _(whether with anxiety or confusion is anyone’s guess)_ nearly breaks Finnick’s demeanor a second time. “Oh.”

He wonders, if she thinks she has asked full questions in her mind, or if her thoughts are as fragmented as her sentences can be.

“Don’t worry, honey,” Finnick keeps his voice sweet and smooth. “Y’all won’t even know I’m gone.”

“What a shame,” Daran interjects, face still severe in its appraisal of Finnick.

“Finnick Odair, that car has been waiting nearly _fifteen minutes!”_ the escort frets from the doorway.

Finnick grunts under his breath, before flashing a smile, and blowing Daran a kiss.

_Count to ten, Finnick._

**  
**

* * *

 

They meet inside. President Snow says nothing at first, not until his assistants and Avoxes leave the room. Not until the Golden Boy and the President of Panem are utterly alone. The man sits back in his chair, the looming sigil of the Capitol behind him, reinforcing the might and power that lies on the other side of the desk. Finnick tries to keep his mask in place; tries to keep calm, keep the fury at bay.

_Count to ten, Finnick._

_(And another thought appears, traitorous and raw as healing flesh,_

_No renmen li._

_He tries to banish red hair from his mind.)_

“Remove your clothing, Mr. Odair.”

Finnick swallows over a lump in his throat.

“Is there a problem?” the President's words are dictated sharply.

Finnick has hesitated a moment too long. He begins to unbutton his shirt. The President remains seated, cold and calculating. The nineteen-year-old strips himself. A sneer appears on the President’s fat, slick lips, at the sight of the Golden Boy’s tanned skin and rippling muscles. Finnick lets his britches slide to the floor before moving to seat himself.

“Remain standing.”

 _I own you,_ goes unsaid.

Ice blue eyes meet green, and Finnick can feel an unwitting shudder under the intent gaze. Snow says no more. Finnick stands, reduced to his boxers and thoughts of his own death.

_(If I make her go crazy, will she kill me? It would be a damn pleasure, if it means never having to do this again.)_

“Miss Cresta will, of course, be in the Capitol for the next Games. You will return a week prior.”

Finnick’s jaw clenches.

“After all, you are our most favored guest.” _most favored sex-toy._ “Continue your role.”

The Golden Boy struggles to maintain eye contact.

“Our most recent Victor is still rather, how did you put it?” President Snow’s head tilts back. _“Delicate_. As you are intimately aware.”

Finnick manages a curt nod. He is uncertain as to where this is going.

“Mags will assist her in mentoring one tribute. You will take the other. Of course, you will extremely busy after the cornucopia. Barring any... _surprises.”_

 _District Four won’t be let past the Bloodbath._ Snow might as well shoot the tributes now, for all the chance the poor bastards will actually have in the 71st Hunger Games.

“Too busy, I'm sure, to deal with your girl." the President drums his fingers once, across the mahogany desk. "She requires a good deal of attention, isn’t that right?”

_Your girl._

Finnick does not trust himself to speak. It is always harder, to speak to someone who holds not only your fate, but the fate of everyone you know, in the palm of their hand. Mags and Annie, both in the Capitol. Finnick can keep an eye on them, yet put them at risk all in the same breath.

“It would be unseemly, our Golden Boy being distracted by someone so unstable. It would hardly fit your role.”

Gaze drifts to the President’s hands, one of which twirls a rose petal between his thumb and index finger.

“Physician Hanratty believes it is in her best interest to remain in the Capitol until the time of the next Games.”

Finnick’s eyes snap up to meet President Snow's.

_Not this threat again._

“She has been doing well under Mr. Alexander’s supervision, after all. The medication has lessened some of those _unpleasantries_ you contended with on the Victory Tour. I’m quite satisfied with her improvements.”

The President does not bluff idly. Finnick pictures her with Lykos, _silent, obedient, crying, begging, bleeding--_

“Sir, n--” he pauses himself, because the next words out of his mouth may only make the situation worse. He finds there is a distinct lack of oxygen, all of a sudden. “Miss Cresta would do better in Four.”

She needs to be safe, with Bo and Aslin, _cooking breakfast and dinner and singing shanties._

The President is assessing the words, piecing and parsing them. Finnick feels it penetrating his defenses, as always.

“Mr. Alexander is satisfied with the girl, as she is.” Snow clears his throat, bringing a handkerchief to his lips for a moment, delicately dabbing at them.  “Unless, you have a different suggestion in mind, Finnick?”

“She would do better in Four,” Finnick repeats.

“Our medical professional seems to disagree.”

“Your medical professional is unfamiliar with the simple-mindedness of most in our District.” Finnick flashes a smile, to prevent himself from losing face more than he already has _(already does and will)._ “They’re fish people, not actors.”

“With certain exceptions, of course.”

“Of course.” Finnick grits his teeth, forcing his grin to remain cavalier, and crooked. It keeps him from saying more. He could never say enough, but there is no right time or place for any of that. “But then, I’m one of a kind, aren’t I, sir?”

“I am afraid, then,” the President cuts through Finnick’s facade. “That the trial treatment must be discontinued until Miss Cresta’s return to our custody. Physician Hanratty can hardly treat her properly in District Four. We cannot provide any medication there, in fact."

No medication. He is going to force Annie through the pain of withdrawal. As unstable as she might be, even now, at least, _(Finnick could fool himself that)_ she had not felt pain so acutely. Now, even if that had been true, she would feel everything full-force; just as she had in the Arena, when she screamed herself silly. Rip off the band-aids and let her lose it.

The only other alternative is to allow her to be Lykos Alexander’s personal chew-toy.

 _(This has to be the right thing,_ Finnick tells himself. He can’t let himself second-guess this, once the decision is made.

It must be better, for her to go home, and be unmedicated, than to stay here drugged into oblivion.

There is no decency, in either course.)

Finnick does not allow himself to cringe. He remembers the patches she tore out of her hair, the slashes she had lain upon her own skin. She had only stopped when they tranquilized her. They have pumped her full, and now will cut her off, abruptly.

Annie Cresta will suffer, one way or the other.

The President knows, _(uses)_ and remembers this.

"Certainly you will recall our previous discussion regarding this issue."

“Oh?” the word is as casual as Finnick means it to sound, but the President’s gaze narrows.

“I wonder, Mr. Odair, do you believe your girl is a Victor by pure chance?”

 _Your girl._ Finnick does not respond to the repeated implication; pretends there is no implication to begin with.

“You see, Victors, like yourself, play an integral role in our society. ”

_Yes, by having sex with people who you owe money to._

“You are as precious to me as my own flesh and blood. Perhaps more so, because of your... integral necessity.”

Finnick tries not to scoff, but does not hide it well enough.

President Snow leans forward, setting his elbows on his desk. The direct gaze of cold blue rakes downwards, over the Golden Boy’s body, before rising again, meeting Finnick’s stare.

_Pervert._

The notion of being assessed to the nearest cent occurs, and Finnick wonders _(though hardly for the first time)_ how he keeps from spitting in the President’s face. It is quite a talent, is it not?

“You might _think,”_ Snow accentuates the final word. “As you please. You have always more than satisfied your assignments here in the Capitol. But I do not want you to get rusty, or forget the risks in failing our system. Do not presume your job will end sooner than I see fit.”

Snow’s fingers snap the head from the stem of the rose.

“You Victors are my reminders, of the Capitol’s authority. We have created each and every one of you. In turn for what we have allowed, you aid in the preservation of that which we hold most dear.” Snow pauses, eyes intent upon Finnick. “I permit your kind to live, in order for you to play your parts. If you should fail at this, even now, there are consequences. Do not think yourself above that.”

His fist squeezes the petal tightly in a fist, crushing it viciously. He opens his palm after a moment, allowing the grounded petals to fall onto his desk.

“And what part would you like Miss Cresta to play?” Finnick inquires, softer than he means to.

 _Resident slut_ has already been taken, many times over; by Finnick, mainly, among others. There is an _outspoken, violent bitch_ from District Seven, and _brainiac_ Beetee Latier who works on security details for Panem’s computer systems. The President has plenty of Victors to play plenty of roles.

 _But he wants Annie,_ Finnick thinks. _He wants Annie because I care about her._

Finnick’s own thoughts must betray him, because he stiffens, involuntarily.

Damn Finnick and his weak spot for  _(weak)_ sweet things.

The President chuckles, before waving a hand over a small holographic screen. It conjures and projects an image from Annie’s first appointment.

_She mumbles incoherently, whimpers. There is blood, on the sheets, from where her hymen had broken. The patron is cooing, but does not stop, not until he has climaxed, and his wife has, too. Finnick is in the background, there, useless and absent and tightening Annie’s restraints, as instructed._

President Snow waves his hand a second time. A new image flickers, one Finnick does not recognize.

 _Annie is visibly high, lying naked on her back. She whimpers, making incoherent protests, jumbled in with apologies and the occasional shriek of pain. Her wrists and ankles are bound to the bed frame with leather tethers._ _All the while, Lykos Alexander carves into her body with knives and scalpels and fingernails, as he murmurs; ‘What a good girl you are.’_

Finnick’s nails dig into his palm. She had a week of that. A week of being a pin-cushion, with a collar around her neck, responding to the beck and call of a sadist's whistle. Drugged, cut up, then stitched back together daily. Nothing showed but polish and smooth skin. She could do nothing, but lay there and let her body be abused.

Defenseless.

Who would believe a mad girl over a respectable Capitol citizen, anyway?

_How often have you watched that, you bastard? Gotten off on it?_

_(Annie Cresta is going to suffer._

_No renmen li.)_

“You tell me, Mr. Odair. What role does Annie Cresta have in the Capitol?”

No appropriate words come to mind and he clenches his jaw, swallowing his own nausea before responding.

“You’d like her to be mad.” Finnick feels his mask falling, failing. He cannot help revulsion that curls his lips. Lykos’ words slip into his mind, come out, in part, without intention; “So people think she’s _exotic.”_

“My dear boy,” boredom licks the tone. “I’d simply like her to be the same Victor who I permitted to survive. I would hate to have wasted the Games on her. I do take such pride in my selections.”

“I wasn’t under the impression that she was a source of pride, sir.”

Snow does not respond, not at first, and Finnick feels a chill quirk his spine.

“This past Games were a disappointment,” Snow admits, with precise diction. “Do you know why there was an earthquake?”

“To make it more exciting-?”

“To cull losses, before someone even less deserving than your _mermaid_ were to win.”

Finnick does not know what to say. All he has are questions that will not be answered.

 _Why?_ Finnick knows better than to ask, but his mind races with questions that burn him up. _Why did you select her to come out of the Arena? Why do you want her insane? Why do you still want to sell her? Why punish her for still being fragile, then drug her so there was practically nothing of her left?_

It does not make any sense. Then again, nothing in the Capitol is ever what it seems.

“Very well.” Finnick’s voice is flat. He struggles to keep composed. He collects his clothing, grateful to be distracted as he pulls his shirt on. He has had enough. They are talking in circles and none of this tells him anything new. “Is there anything further?”

The response is not immediate, and Finnick stills, wondering what unknown line he has crossed this time. He pauses clothing himself, reluctantly looking to the President.

“You’re rather devoted to our newest Victor, my boy.” Snow’s amusement mocks the Golden Boy. “Don’t let it become a distraction.”

“It won’t.” Finnick can hear the words come out of his own mouth, but detaches from it, from what Snow is continuously implying. His fingers button his trousers, move on to his shirt.

“It had better not.”

Fingers fumble, momentarily, with the buttons. When completely dressed, he looks to President Snow for dismissal.

“We would hate for the dear girl to succumb to an accident. ” President Snow’s eyes narrow as he continues;  “Jobe and Perry Cresta did set such _poor_ examples for their daughter.”

The younger _(boy)_ man freezes, feels his hands trembling in anger before he realizes it. He lets his nails dig into the palms of his hands again, to keep from doing something he will regret.

“Give my regards to everyone in Four.”

"Of course, sir."

"Oh, and do wish Miss Cresta a happy birthday. Seventeen is a _wonderful_ age, don't you think?"

 

* * *

 

  _(Because seventeen means people here **expect** it, Finnick._

_and don't just seek it as a clandestine activity._

_You'd know something about that, wouldn't you?)_

* * *

 

He falls asleep in the dining car, knowing the ride home always feels shorter; more sweet.

He dreams of his trident lodged in President Snow’s throat. He smiles, but it turns to a bitter scream.

_Snow becomes Mrs. Odair then Mags, before Mags becomes Annie._

_And Annie is a mutt, is mutated with strange growths as blood-red foam pours out of her mouth--_

_and he keeps stabbing her with his trident, but it does no good--_

_she is shoving him against the wall,_

_her fingers shred at his scalp--_

_and she shouts, and he shouts, and they are screaming--_

“Finnick!”

A slap strikes his cheek. He jerks up, hands find flesh and he’s struggling and gasping before he finds that _sea-green eyes are huge, and staring up at him in fear. This is not a nightmare._

_Is it?_

_Finnick sees hands wrapped around a small, slender, freckled throat-_

And he realizes: he had been ready to strangle her, had her pinned up against a wall.

Annie is standing, staring at him in confusion, in the middle of the dining car. She looks afraid, _afraid of him,_  and tears are in her eyes.

“No.” he pulls himself away, chest heaving. “No, no, no--”

Sweat drenches him, pours in beads down his face, back and arms. He looks at his hands, those monstrous, tensed things. He thinks he sees blood but it is not real, he knows, for when he blinks it intermittently disappears and he is left with an imagined taste and smell of refuse and murder.

He collapses and his head falls to his hands. He is crying before he thinks to stop himself. He presses his hands either side of his head, gripping himself tightly, hoping that he crushes himself.

_It would be better._

“Finnick?” the voice is soft, tentative and sweet.

 _Annie,_ he thinks.

“No,” he says.

He is scratching himself, wants to bleed himself raw of it, claw his eyes out. He can hear she is shuffling closer. Fingernails dig into his own flesh.

_Get it out, get it out, get it out--_

“F-Finnick? It's okay-”

_I’m dirty, I’m wrong, I almost killed you--_

“You didn't do anything-”

_I am so damn tired--_

“Tell me what you think is happening.”

_Nails drag through hair, gripping and thick and seeking to shred flesh from bone, and-_

“Please, you’re scaring me.”

"Back off!" he holds up his hands, to try to get her to stay away. "Just..."

She should be scared. He should scare her. She is close, _too close._ She should not touch him. She takes a step back, but does not leave.

He is dirty, he is a monster.

_Didn’t she figure it out while my hands wrapped around her throat?_

“You didn’t touch me.” the words are soft, pleading. "Finnick, listen. You didn't-- I'm fine."

He hates her for how soft she sounds, how close to soothing her voice _(_ _her words)_  is _(are)_.

"You didn't try to-- you didn't hurt me. It was a dream, Finnick. It wasn't real."

_Killer, slut, self-absorbed bastard._

A dirty, disgusting plaything.

_I tried to make you go insane, Annie, and it may have been exactly what Snow wanted._

"Shh," she murmurs. "Finnick, please."

He does not want her to see him like this, so he turns away. He does not get not far enough on unsteady feet, because he stops to throw up. He is on the floor but he cannot stop the images in his head, cannot keep himself from imagining it all. He will never pull enough blood to the surface to get it all out. _Polyamory_. A hand rests on his back and the sobs come out. He falls back, tries to hide behind his hands, tries to curl up and go away like she does.

It does not work for him.

_(I wish I were dead.)_

It might be hours, it might be years, before he begins to feel himself calming. Tears abate. Sobs fade. She is there, a hand still on his back, tracing gentle circles. He peels his hands away from his face, lets his legs stretch out. Eventually, it is the fury that takes over.

Head leans back so he can see her, let her see the disgusting, vile thing she has placed so much trust in. He glares at her, but she offers no flickers of hurt or anger.

She moves her hand, places it, instead, on his forehead. She brushes his hair back, swallows over a lump in her throat. She studies his face, touch featherlight as her voice.

“Go to bed,” he snaps, and his tone is harsh. It is easy: his throat is raw from screaming, and his anger towards Snow, towards everything, can be redirected to this little girl. “Leave me alone, I don’t want you here.”

“I’m not…” her voice is soft, still. She barely whispers, and he is furious. “I’m not leaving you like this.”

He shoves her, pushes her away. It is not as hard as it could be, or as gruff, but it is bad enough, for him to pull back automatically; bad enough to make him want to apologize, though he does not get the words out. He is angry, because she is so damn sweet and she has that light in her that makes him feel blind; and he does not want sweetness, does not want to poison it with his touch or his affection. He wants to be told how awful he is, _and damnit, he knows she won't do that._

She inhales sharply, but does not try to come any closer. Nor does she leave. She settles, cross-legged on the floor, only a few feet away from him, now. Her head tilts, but she remains still. Hands raise in the air, for a moment, before they slowly drift down. Her fingers interlace themselves, hand to hand. Her eyes linger on him. They sit that way. He every so often tells her to _get out,_ to _piss off,_ to _leave me alone._ She says nothing, not even when he tells her he hates her.

Finally, he gives up, and deflates. He is not the more patient of the two.

His shoulders slump. He feels defeated and shuts his eyes. His face collapses into opened palms.

“I didn’t win by accident,” Annie says quietly.

He might know what she means, why it matters, here and now. But he is too tired to respond, or think it over.

She hums for a moment, to herself, before scooting closer. She does what she had done, when he had been drunk on the same train home, back what seems like a lifetime ago. She is placing a cool, damp cloth to his forehead, another to the back of his neck. His eyes slide opened, and he watches her. She does not say anything more, just hums and dabs at his face.

He remembers what she told him, in his kitchen the first morning she made him breakfast: _‘Making things helps.’_

“Fixing things does, too?” he asks aloud, without meaning to, and she smiles, slightly.

“Yes.” her eyes float up, and she smiles shyly at him. “Fixing things, too.”

 _“Mèsi anpil,”_ he whispers, his hand reaching out, taking hers.

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyouthankyouthankyou this is a bit longer, hope it's up to par~  
> comments / crit / etc always appreciated <3


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t win by accident. She had not, he supposes. She had won because of determination and patience.  
> She wins now, because Finnick still has a weakness for weak (sweet) things.  
> (And, yet, he feels less guilted, than he does reassured.  
> Because Annie Cresta is seeking him out  
> And it isn't to abuse him.)
> 
> In which Annie wins an (almost non-existent) argument, and a cloud looks suspicious on the way home.

The doors slide with barely a whisper, letting them into the sleeper car. The windows are black with pre-dawn. The train chugs along, passing a landscape invisible to the naked eye. At least, from inside a speeding, glassed cage.

 _“Mwen rete isit?”_ her voice is hesitant, laced with sleep. Groggy, but not gone.

He is grateful, for once, that she is here, with him. Grateful, because he wants company as much as she seems to. He worries, still. The final injection of the medication had been admitted on their final morning, in the Capitol. The effects will not last, not with the amount to which her body has forced to become accustomed.

Finnick ignores her question still, because it’s still _not a good idea,_ and he tries to move further down the hall, to Annie’s own sleeping compartment.

She has one of Finnick’s hands grasped between both of her own. She will not walk past his door.

“Annie-”

“Please?” her lips form the word, but she does not voice it.

There is a plea beyond the words, which lingers in her eyes; in the way her grip tightens, and lower lip is worried away by her teeth.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“But,” Annie murmurs, her head tilting. Her eyes flash with worry. “You?”

“Honey,” Finnick flashes his dazzling pearly-whites. “I’m always fine-”

“Not always.” her tone is sharper than normal; strained, and borderline angry. Lips purse, tilting downwards into a frown. “No.”

_You’re not always fine, Finnick. Don’t be a liar._

He wonders, if he will see a reflection of his own episode in the churning sea-green between her lashes. If she means, _he is still not recovered from what she has witnessed_ , specifically; or, _he has never been okay,_ before or after. She would be more correct, with the latter assumption, but he shakes his head.

It does not make a difference, for either of them.

“It’s half past three,” he offers. “We’re both tired. C’mon.”

She does not budge when he tries to ease her two doors down. Instead, she tugs on his hand, forehead pinching as she urges him to linger where they are. Finnick gives in, after a moment, finally releasing a sigh of defeat.

“You win,” he mumbles. He pushes the door to his own compartment opened.

Annie smiles shyly, and he remembers what she said not three hours ago. _I didn’t win by accident._ She had not, he supposes. She had won because of determination and patience.

She wins now, because Finnick still has a weakness for weak _(sweet)_ things.

(And, yet, he feels less _guilted,_ than he does _reassured._

_Because Annie Cresta is seeking him out_

_And it isn't to abuse him.)_

Finnick grabs a set of sweatpants, heading into his compartment’s toilet to change. When he emerges, she is under the blankets, though hands are above the covers. She does not look up, or seem particularly impressed that she is in the same room as a shirtless Finnick Odair. Instead, Annie is carefully weaving the ends of a string, overlapping and then tugging it to form bunches of bows. Finnick reaches over, takes it and examines the experiment.

“What've we got here, mermaid girl?” Finnick teases.

“Found it,” Annie shrugs.

Finnick resists the urge to comment on her just so happening to _‘find’_ something, on one hand, that is useless; and on the other, something that is clearly important and invaluable, like the memory drive. 

_Annie's little secret._

“Sea-glass, maybe…” she trails.

He can practically hear the finish of the sentence in his head. _Sea-glass, maybe, would look nice, strung from it._ Is that what she is saying? That is what he hears her saying. He wonders if she knows he completes her fragmented sentences, inside his own head.

He is getting used to doing this, with her. For now, it is rather peculiar. A novelty.

“Put it in a window,” Finnick suggests. “It’ll be pretty.”

Annie smiles, less shy this time, before she takes the string back, putting it on her own head. Finnick raises a brow. 

“Pretty?” Annie bats her lashes. "Sink or swim?"

“ _Mar_ velous,” Finnick invokes a Capitol accent. “And, swim. Yer just about the purdiest fish in the whole dang sea.”

They both begin to laugh. Annie’s laugh is a _tut-tut-tut._  It makes Finnick grin, sincerely, this time.

“Here.” Finnick makes a turning motion.

Annie shifts, after a momentary confusion, so that her back is to him.

Finnick sits up, playing with her hair. The texture of her hair is smooth, now, from mounds of Capitol products that diminish resistance and make stylings easier. Red locks slip through Finnick’s fingers with ease. He fiddles for a bit, using Annie’s hair as if it is practice rope. He weaves the center of the string into the plaiting. He takes one final bow that remains unbraided, wrapping it around the end of the braid. When he finishes, he pats the top of her head, leaning over to flash her a smile.

Tentative hands reach up to inspect Finnick’s work, and sea-green eyes widen as they explore the different twists and turns.

“Double loop knot?” she asks, eagerly, before grinning. “That’s the first I learned, when I was little.”

Finnick shrugs, laying back on the bed.

 _“Mèsi,_ Finnick.” her voice is soft, smile honest, and tugging at him now with its sweetness.

“You hardly need to thank me for that,” he reassures, playfully rolling his eyes smiling back at her.

Annie mimics Finnick now, reclining on the bed and rolling her eyes at him. 

“But is nice,” she mumbles. She pulls the blankets up to her chin, hiding her hands underneath, alongside the rest of her.

“It’s not my best work.” he winks as he says this.

“Well." rather than blushing or seeming embarrassed, or even triggered, by his implication, Annie blinks at him, before patting her hair gingerly. "I like it.”

 “It’ll do.”

After a little while, Annie curls up, facing towards the window. Finnick lays back, hands resting underneath his own neck. Green eyes watch the ceiling, counting the tiles.

“What’s a crap-shoot?” Annie’s voice is groggy, and frayed; but breaks an easy silence in twain, nonetheless.

“What?” Finnick turn towards her, on his side. He waits for Annie to respond, but she does not. When a few minutes have passed, he reaches over, placing a hand on her shoulder. He gives a light squeeze, to no avail. “Annie?”

“Said… I’m a crap-shoot.”

“Who did?” a twist in his stomach accompanies the question, to which _(he thinks)_ he may already know the answer.

“Them.”

“Lykos?” Finnick hisses the name.

“No, them.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying.” his admittance seems to confuse Annie, because she rolls onto her back, frowning at him. “Who said you were a crap-shoot?”

“He…” she pauses, hand raising to her right ear, while eyes narrow in concentration. She shakes her head, staring at him, intently. “Said I’m one, now. They said I’s one then. What’s it mean?”

“It’s… hit-or-miss.”

“What is?”

“That’s what crap-shoot means,” Finnick clarifies. He is trying to keep the frustration from his voice, because it is not her fault, but damnit, _if she could just concentrate for more than five seconds,_ that would make things far less halting. _  
_

“Didn't know.” Annie trails away with a _ho-hum._ She turns so she faces away from Finnick, once again. She begins to hum a song under her breath.

The humming fades after a time. Eventually her long, quiet breaths tell him she has fallen asleep.

A _crap-shoot._

Finnick mulls the words over, watching her shoulders rise and fall.

_“Do you know why there was an earthquake?_

_“To make it more exciting-?”_

_“To cull losses, before someone even less deserving than your mermaid were to win.”_

Snow had made Annie Cresta, _Victor,_ sound purposeful. And Lykos only said, that Annie is a crap-shoot _now,_ not that she _had_ been one, to come out of the Arena. It is doubtful the man would feign that sort of confirmation, to someone as unstable as Annie. Lykos' purse, and that of the Amarans, would be enough enticement, to give them what they want, even if the Victor is _'mad,'_ as they call her.

(Or, in Alexander's case,  _'exotic.')_

Had President Snow chanced the Games, then? Thrown up his hands and gone for a 'crap-shoot'? Had the Gamemakers, at Snow's behest, caused an earthquake to get the pretty little redhead out, before the Games were _'wasted'?_ It could be. President Snow needs his revenue repaid, in full. To Capitol sponsors, the only tribute contenders left at that point had been _(if not more so, then)_ just as weak and underwhelming as Annie Cresta. You do not need to be a Games connoisseur to know that any District Four kid, worth their salt, can survive rough currents and hours of swimming.

The other final five, all of whom had been from outlying Districts, had hardly been in any better condition than Annie. That included the only Career who actually made it to the end.

The _(severely emaciated)_ girl from One had still been alive when the earthquake hit. She ended up dying before the watershed; from a boulder unleashed by the earthquake. She had been the only  _Capitol-approved_ tribute, at that point, but had clearly trained only for combat, sans survival skills. Finnick had heard, amongst his 'clientele,' comments about how _if only One's girl were a touch more attractive, she might have made a good Victor._ They had spoken about the girl as if she were already deceased, even though, at the time, it was only Day Four. Not unusual, for other Districts, even Finnick's; but for consistently tough  _Career Districts,_  it is bizarre.

 _It is unprecedented._  The word disjoints Finnick, and he huffs to himself.

His head is going in circles.

For all their fancy academy, and complicated volunteering system, Districts One and Two made poor showings during Annie's Games. That much is true. The boy from One, though a volunteer, had failed to play up the charm, which so often garnered Victors for his District. One's girl was 'ugly.' The set from Two had been about as unhinged as axe-murderers; far worse than Annie, with her vacancies and confusion. Two's boy had apparently spoken openly  _(dreamily, almost),_  about eating Annie, although they had been playing allies at the time. He had gone further, with his kills, actually licking the blood off of his knife, and carving up the dying child, as if marking up a fatted pig. The girl from Two enjoyed taking trophies, like her victim's innards, or a District Three's fingers. Like Dom's decapitated head. 

_Annie Cresta is the closest to Capitol-approved standards as they were going to get this year._

She had trained, she had survived, and she was pretty enough to intrigue some wealthy investment. Preident Snow could still get something out of her.

_ She was a crap-shoot, but she came out breathing. _

_Even if that had been the case, though,_ Finnick thinks; the President could not have known, not truly, in flooding the arena, that he would get Annie for a Victor. It had not been a guarantee, though in retrospect it seems the perfect plan. There were too many variables. President Snow deals in definitives, not guesstimations.

Finnick shifts closer to her, reaches out and runs his hands through her hair.

 _Why?_ he hears her voice ask, but it is in his head and it gives him enough pause to stop.

 _Because we’re both in the same sinking ship,_ he reasons. Better to bail out together, than trying to bail out on your own.

Gentle rocking of the train, though easy to ignore, sets a lulling tone that brings them both to slumber.

Darkness is a pleasant relief. Deep thoughts are best kept deep, dark, and far away from the surface of Finnick’s mind.

Not like they stay there for long, but, still.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_The apple has to go before the banana._

And

_The skins must be carefully pulled and thrown out and cannot touch the plate, otherwise it will all be a disaster._

She has had to change plates three different times, already, because the skins touched where the inner fruit is meant to go. Though none of this has caused a severe panic or a vacancy, the buildup is present. They are on the inside of the wave, and Finnick is waiting for it all to come crashing down at the breakfast table.

_The marmalade cannot touch the bacon_

And

_The hot chocolate cannot go to the left of the coffee._

Finnick is exhausted, just watching Annie's little... whatever they are. _Routines,_ he supposes.

Every so often, she will swat at something unseen before her eyes, or scratch her neck and inner arms incessantly; but overall, the playing with her food, seems enough of a distraction from the slow downing of her high.

Annie, for the most part, is jumpy, and hyper, and intent upon separating each and every article of food and utensils.

When she gets to the  _knives,_ she freezes. As does Finnick.

"Butter," he improvises. "Annie, it's a butter-spreader."

 _It's not a knife, not a knife, don't think of him, please._  

If Finnick can keep Lykos out of Annie's mind, it will be a rare Victory which Finnick, and not the President will not own.

"B-" Annie cannot complete the word.

Finnick watches her eyes widen, chest rising and falling heavily. He feels himself beginning to panic, if in a different way; and he looks to Mags, the only other person in the dining car with them. Mags raises a brow, before popping a donut into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

_Thanks a lot, Mags._

"Butter?" Annie sounds unconvinced, and there is a flatness to it, that makes Finnick feel slightly guilty. "You're... sure?"

"Yep," Finnick forces confidence, alongside a toothy smile. He takes the knife from her place-setting, balancing it in the middle between his thumb and forefinger. "Butter-spreader."

Annie blinks, before looking down at her plate and taking a deep breath. She is trying to center herself, trying to focus and gain control. He respects that, and understands it. Because, pretty soon, she is going to have to pretend again, pretend for herself, and for her family. For Annie Cresta, pretending is no simple task.

She has been through hell, and her outer shell is severely cracked and warped.

Everyone watches television, after all. She will not be able to escape however everyone back home has come to see her.

Finnick takes a bite of his own buttered toast, trying to pretend he does not feel sick with memories. Never mind _predictions_.

 _Daran would be better at this,_ Finnick thinks.

Only, Daran has avoided Annie since they boarded the train. He has not left his compartment.

_"Is he angry, Finnick?"_

_"Why would he be angry?"_

_"Because of me."_

_"Why would you ever think that?"_

_"Because I did... things that..." she breaks off, and starts humming._

_"Annie?"_

_"Orange juice?"_

_(And so, they had come to get breakfast.)_

Finnick reaches over, interlaces his hands with Annie's. To his surprise, the humming pauses, and her fingers curl, tighter now, around his own. He glances up to see her watching him, studying him. He offers a smile, hopes it looks as genuine as he wants it to be. She looks down, but does not release his hand.

A throat clears. Finnick turns, quirking a brow at a frowning Mags. Her head motions to the window.

The previously whirling landscape is beginning to pause, become still. The train is slowing, despite still being a good hour outside of District Four's Train Station. Finnick's brow begins to furrow. He feels a panic building in himself.

_We never stop this close to home._

_We have no scheduled stops between the Capitol and Home._

_It could be a maintenance issue._

_Or--_

"Oof," a whisper sounds. Finnick realizes his hand has tightened like a vice around Annie's fingers.

"Sorry, honey." it comes out of his lips with more affection than he means to put behind it.

Annie merely smiles shyly, and goes back to alphabetizing the table. When the train has come to a full stop, there are voices calling indecipherably, from one car to the next. Through the window, Mags and Finnick watch as the Peacekeepers assigned their train spread out. They walk along the length of the train, inspecting the bottoms of the metal cars. A dull metallic  _ding_ marks the beat of nightstick against the undercarriage of each, in turn. When the dining car is tested, Annie jumps, but recovers quickly.

In the distance, where Finnick knows the marshland unfolds just inside the Dividing Fence; where the clamming fields lay, to the southeast of Pesca, there is a vague, dark grey haze, at odds with the bloom of a cloudless, blue morning. Finnick stiffens, before his head snaps towards Mags.

She is watching the same scene, eyes set on the same clouds. Her expression is carefully neutral. 

_Fire._

The word twists and twirls, doing pirouettes within Finnick's mind. He feels a shakiness in his bones.

There is a fire in the clamming marshes. Or, rather, they are approaching from the southwest; and there is a fire _somewhere_ in District Four. The clouds, however, are billowing over the clamming marshes, which are adjacent to Pesca.

The tappings run back up to the head car, and slowly, _painfully_ , the train's whistle announces its crew's intent.

"Home?" Annie breaks the tension. She begins itching her neck. "We're in time for clam-bake season."

She begins laughing.

It must be an inside joke.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKYOUTHANKYOU FOR READING. I hope you enjoyed! please leave comments / crit. / etc., it helps me bunches and bunches. I may update a second time this week, as well, for reasons that are reasonable! <3


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He should say, It’s nothing.  
> He would think, Good luck, kiddoes.  
> He could shrug and walk away.  
> Should've, would've, could've. Instead, he finds it hard to say, or think, or do anything at all.
> 
> [Or, in which District Four is (almost) as big of a mess as its Victors.]

There is no one at the station. No one in the streets. They are shuffled straight out of the glimmering train, and into the black automobile. As the car, driven by Peacekeepers, cuts through Town, the markets and vendors are all mysteriously bereft of people. Grey, hazy smoke is visible, although its specific source remains blocked, by buildings and the canning factories; but it is as clear as it had been. Either the dying clouds of smoke are stemming from the clamming marshes, or Pesca itself. 

Finnick dreads the possibility of the latter, mainly because it could be connected to the Victory Tour they have hardly yet left behind.

_Ramifications, darling._

_Do you need another lesson?_

Annie has been staring into space with a contented smile on her face, ever since breakfast. Mags had gently taken her hand to lead her off the train. The newest Victor followed obediently. An ache had twinged Finnick's chest.

(He tells himself it is because he pities her.

Pity is easy to deal with.

He feels it for himself practically every other day.)

Even with the change of scenery, the only alteration in her expression had come when she began to scratch her own neck; fleeting, at first, but then more furious. Her still-manicured nails had begun to dig in deeper and deeper. Mags had wrapped the girl in her arms, only to be met with bubbly giggles.

 _"Sing the sailor and mermaid song, grann!"_ Annie had cuddled up against the older woman, before smiling at nothing.

Mags is still humming, in her halting way, as the car putters along.

There are some fishing boats, visible just offshore, but it looks as if each has a Peacekeeper speedboat escort. Finnick looks back, out the rear window of the car to try and see through the narrow alleys of town to the shoreline. The docks, known to be a frenzy of lively and loud fishing crews, offloading and resupplying before shipping out again, are replaced by the silence of an incoming breeze, and the caw and shriek of gulls.

Finnick tries to ignore the chill that runs down his spine.

_The entire Town Center seems dead._

Daran has had a bottle in his hand since he first emerged from his sleeping quarters. He had pulled Annie into a tight embrace, once he finally stumbled out to greet them earlier. She had given him a kiss on the cheek, before beginning to tell them all about the importance of forks and spoons being on opposing sides of the table. Daran had said nothing, no encouragements to calm herself; nor even did he give admonishments, at Finnick’s lewd interjections. Daran’s free hand, though, never strays more than a few inches from the half-empty, clear liquid, encased in crystal glass.

The car travels over sand-dusted cobblestone. Tanned faces peer out from windows, and from within the screens of storm-doors. The taller homes in Town turn to grassy marsh as the cobblestone road crosses a narrow strip of land. They say Victor's Village had been a tiny, swampy island, the first time their District brought home a Victor. Finnick could ask Mags, surely she would remember, but he never has bothered. The land has been built up over the years, and widened its perimeters, by stones and rocks, and straw and dried reeds; bordered still by marshes and bogs. Land stretches between the Village and Town like a taught mesh, connective yet sheer; green and soggy, yet significant enough to block boats from cutting more inland.

The road tilts, now, ever-so-slightly uphill, before evening out as they enter the perimeters of Victor’s Village. There are Peacekeepers posted at the entry. The Victor’s Fountain, at the center of the circle, bubbles on as always. But the vibrancy of the neighborhood, so frequently filled with Four’s Victors and their families, going to and from Town, has been cut, suffocated. Victor’s Village feels like a ghost town. Finnick rarely seeks out the company of the other Victors, with Mags being the exception, but there has always been a comfort to their presence. That comfort is being threatened.

_But why?_

Finnick needs only glance at Mags, to know his own suspicions, his own fears are mirrored in her own thoughts.

_What the hell is going on?_

“Bo!”

Annie nearly throws herself out of the moving car, as it pulls to a stop just inside the circular road. Daran holds her back, ignoring her whimpering protests, until the Peacekeepers escorting them open the car doors. As soon as permitted, Annie is running towards her house, where Bo and Aslin are waiting on the front stoop. Bo gathers her in his arms-- though, Finnick realizes quickly, he only offers one arm. His left arm is in a shoulder sling.

 _“Bo!”_ the voice is higher in pitch now, and loud, louder than Finnick has really heard her be. Soft, sweet, shy tones are gone, replaced by warbling and audible fright, as she assesses her brother’s injuries. “What happened?!”

Bo shakes his head, face and grip both tensing. Aslin plants a gentle kiss to Annie’s cheek. Finnick sees her lips move, Bo contributing as well. Their voices are too low to hear from a distance.

“No!” Annie's voice is growing louder. “No, no,  **no**! _Ki moun mal-?!”_

Aslin leans in and murmurs something, hands running through Annie’s hair. The newest Victor goes quiet, though she continues to shake her head. One hand is pressed firmly against her own right ear, face leaning against her own palm; as if things will make any more sense, that way, than they currently do. Finnick’s fingers curl inwards, so that the nails press against the inner flesh of his palm. He barely catches himself, some strange jealousy, _or is it nervousness?,_ trickling down his spine. He tries to look away; to feign being unaffected by the Crestas. That is, two Crestas and one Sibb, but Aslin may as well be a Cresta.

_Those poor, Pesca Crestas, motherless and fatherless, with their mad little girl and a big house that didn't make anything any better._

Daran stumbles to his own mansion, kissing his wife’s cheek, before heading straight inside.

Finnick escorts Mags to her home. She motions for him to follow her inside. He chances a glance back, seeing a Peacekeeper approaching where the Crestas are still gathered on the front steps.

Finnick stops in his tracks.

 _“Ki sa,_ boy?” Mags garbles.

He should say, _It’s nothing._

He would think, _Good luck, kiddoes._

He could shrug and walk away.

 _Should've, would've, could've._ Instead, he finds it hard to say, or think, or do anything at all.

“Martial curfew.” the Peacekeeper barks, as he approaches the Cresta trio. Finnick tenses. _Martial curfew._ He has never heard of such a thing. “Inside your houses until curfew ends.”

Aslin’s lips move, eyes narrowed with that disdain Finnick thought had been reserved specifically for him.

_Should I be insulted that she shares the same look with a Peacekeeper?_

Bo, good arm still around his sister, shakes his head vehemently. Annie curls against her brother’s side as the Peacekeeper nears them to within a few paces.

“What’s that, girl?” he yells, clearly looking to make an example.

“I’m a _woman.”_ Aslin snaps back, loud enough to carry. “And I said, we haven't left our property.”

The air is thick with a static tension that bites at Finnick. Mags places a hand on the Golden Boy’s shoulder, but he begins moving forward, slowly.

And then the Peackeeper slaps Aslin clean off her feet. She stumbles off the stoop. The Peacekeeper’s boot kicks at her leg with a vengeance when she lands in a crumple on the ground.

Annie snaps. She abruptly propels herself at man’s torso. They both go tumbling down, but it is the Peacekeeper who recovers first, shoving Annie off of him and screaming for backup. He wields a nightstick, and Annie stays where she is on the ground, paralyzed. Pure fear is all that her face now displays.

Finnick’s feet thump across the cobblestone, to the other side of the circle, before he knows it.

“No!” he yells. The Peacekeeper turns on him, now, as others are approaching quickly. Finnick holds his hands up, making sure to signal his surrender. “It’s a misunderstanding-”

"Martial curfew-”

“It’s just a misunderstanding,” Finnick repeats, firmly. His tone cracks, eyes locking with the muddy brown of the Peacekeeper. He forces a smile, before strategically placing himself between the Peacekeeper and Annie’s family. “Mister…?”

“Save it, boy.” the grizzled man spits, nodding at his cohorts. The approaching Peacekeepers break off. The older man lowers his own weapon. He turns to glare at the Crestas.

Bo is carefully dusting off a shaken _(if still scowling)_ Aslin, who stands beside him. The Peacekeeper’s eyes land on the newest Victor.

Annie is rocking back and forth on the ground.

“Misunderstanding,” she says loudly, nodding to herself. A laugh bubbles out from between her lips before she put fingers across her own lips, as though telling herself to be quiet.

“If't happens again,” the Peacekeeper yells, voice raising to a bellow as he turns towards the others. The other Victors have either gathered at their own front doors, or are peering through their windows. They are hardly as big a band as in One or Two, but there are enough of them. Enough to imply a threat to the Peacekeeper and his men, should there be the right motivation. “Another toe outta line, you’ll get your own personal whipping post in place of that lovely fountain.”

Finnick turns, keeping his ears attuned to what the man has to say further.

"And you," the Peacekeeper sneers, turning back to the Golden Boy. "You're no exception, you get me?"

"Naturally," Finnick manages to put his clenched jaw into a crooked grin. "Though I bet I could sway you on me being an exception."

"You wouldn't be the first to try," the man snaps, eyes narrowing. 

"Oh, but I would _certainly_ be the last."

The muddy brown eyes glare, though nothing is said in response, as the man turns away. Heavy footsteps are mimicked by his underlings, as they proceed towards the entry to the Village. He does pause, to offer some parting words.

"Anyone leaves their own property before dawn tomorrow, will face a firing squad."

Peacekeepers tend to come and go through here with the season. They are changed often, moved to different Districts. Some are only transferred for a few weeks in _‘paradise.’_ The idea is to avoid forming any sort of bond between lowly District Citizen, and lauded representatives of the Capitol. District Four is wealthy, at least better off than some other Districts, and their particular commodity is one which the Capitol is wise to monitor. It could turn against them, if the wrong situation should occur; the wrong _spark_.

“Yes, _mis_ ter understanding,” Annie whispers. Her hands then slap over her own ears; _once,_ then _twice,_ then _one-two-three_ times.

Aslin grabs her by the elbow, pulling her inside of the house.

Finnick takes a deep breath, glad the Peacekeeper has stepped far out of hearing range. Relief is short-lived, when the guards who linger barks for everyone to return to their homes and lock their doors. The masked men begin approaching doors, checking to see if the knobs are locked.

Finnick glances hesitantly at the Crestas, only to see their door closing behind Bo.

At a loss for what else to do, the Golden Boy goes with the Eldest Living Victor, and helps her inside.

* * *

 

He cannot hold himself in. Finnick fidgets and frets and paces, but no matter what he does, he cannot set himself down. He cannot stop moving.

_The medication,_

_The threats,_

_The knives,_

_The collars,_

_The whips,_

_The drugs,_

_The memory stick,_

_The smoke,_

_The broken arm,_

_The whipping post..._

The sad little family that just didn't seem to know what to do with themselves.

_(He isn't just thinking of the Crestas.)_

He hopes that Annie is okay. He has not heard any sounds, from across the way; nothing to indicate a breakdown. That does not necessarily mean much.

With the patrols not only on the water, but on land, as well, Finnick lingers in Mags’ home. He worries for her, as much as she does for him. Neither allows the other to be alone.

Finnick still cannot stop drumming any and every surface his fingers touch.

A smack on the site of his head makes him pause and smirk. He looks up to see Mags, her eyes still shut, but her expression clearly irritated. He is seated on the floor of her sitting room. The old woman attempts her seventh nap of the day on the couch, just above him.

“Are you going to tell me,” Finnick initiates after a few minutes. Mags’ eyes slowly open, watery pale blue surrounded by reddened fault lines. “Or shall I let my imagination run wild?”

He knows she will understand; knows she is always one step ahead of the grapevine. Mags is a font of knowledge. The problem is, who is there to share knowledge with, these days? Aside from the  _wrong people,_ that is.

 _“Dwe toujou,_ boy.” Mags grumbles. She waves a hand at him, as if he is a nagging child _(which, really, he is)._ She shifts so that her back sinks more against the cushions of the recliner, eyes slipping shut. “Sleep.”

“My bedtime’s not for hours.” Finnick answers with a cheeky grin. “Not tired.”

“Not yet,” Mags corrects. Another blindly released smack brings him to laugh aloud as she accidentally dislodges a pile of old knitting patterns to the floor. “Nowhere, till dawn. Sleep, boy.”

He tries. It is fitful, and it makes him think of Annie.

_("Babies are awfully fitful.")_

Finnick throws up. He wishes he were more surprised than he is. It is only once, and at least, he thinks, he is not likely to be as Annie in the coming days. Her medications have been ten-fold what his own dabblings have been. He is just trying to get over some male-enhancements and some substances to make him disappear a little. Annie, well. Who knows what sort of damage has been done to an already damaged mental state.

_(Poor, sad, little girl.)_

He ends up watching the dawn peek through curtains, resting his body against the cool tile floor of Mags’ toilet.

The thud of the front knocker disturbs whatever peace had come through in the cool evening air. Hearing Mags shuffling about downstairs spurs Finnick enough to get off the cold, hard ground. When he reaches the landing of the stairwell, he sees Bo Cresta, engaged in an intense, quiet conversation.

"Something you'd like to share with the class?" Finnick interjects, as he descends the staircase.

Bo hesitates, looking to Mags, as if asking her permission. The man waits until Mags gives a stiff nod, before clearing his own throat.

"Someone burnt more than half the outgoing stock at the canneries," Bo begins. His lips hang opened a moment, and, fleetingly, Finnick is reminded of Annie. "A few weeks ago. They left a message, too. It got covered up pretty quick, but it's no secret, people have been fed up for a while."

Bo pauses here, checking Finnick's reaction. When Finnick nods, slowly, and says nothing aloud, Bo continues.

"The Peacekeepers rounded up some 'suspected conspirators' a few days ago. Had them bring more than half the District's reserves from the canneries and pools out to the clamming fields. And they..."

 _And they started a fire,_ Finnick thinks.

"That doesn't make any sense," he says.

"They didn't start the fire," Bo clarifies, as if reading Finnick's train of thought. Bo releases a pent-up breath. "But they executed the conspirators. They used the citizens to remove the goods from our own warehouse, to a Peacekeeper facility out by the clamming fields. Then they executed them."

"Oh." the word is all that Finnick's lips can form.

"Seventy-five," Bo's voice cracks, and he gulps audibly. He clears his throat again, clearly trying to stay strong enough to at least see the story through. "They took a bunch of us off the fishing crews, to dig graves, and--"

The voice breaks off. Mags gives the man's shoulder a comforting squeeze. Finnick wonders, idly, if Aslin and Bo have tried explaining all of this to Annie. _I hope not._

"Most were Pesca, but, not all. Men and women, both. The fire started, after."

"Did we riot?" Finnick finds his voice more childlike than he intends.

"We?" Bo's gaze narrows, but Mags reaches out, places a hand on his good shoulder. The man shakes his head, before looking away from either Victor. "The retaliation cost half the crop, little of it was salvageable, and what it, it's been announced, is to be held for the Peacekeepers. And now, they've doubled the required quota for the Capitol."

Finnick does not know what to say. The District has always done well, being able to fish for itself; they have never been as wealthy as One or Two, but they have always, as a District made ends meet.

But, now, with this incident, with being monitored, with being plundered, and murdered; with their own foods, exported...

Tesserae will increase. 

 _People will starve._ People will begin to starve. More names will go in the glass Reaping jar.

Fists clench.

 _Well, there you have it._ It is always bloody Snow.

Finnick barely registers the next few sentences. Mags taps his cheek, gentle as she can be while still bringing him back to the present.

"Mama, boy," Mags says, lips pursing as her face falls. "Your Mama."

And he begins to understand. 

 _Your mama_ _is dead, Finnick._

Welcome home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyouthankyou for reading!! hopefully you enjoyed. I've had a crazy week and have been dead tired, so please pardon any bad editing on my part! as always comments / crit. / etc are always appreciated. <3


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few decades ago, it had been decided there would be only one cemetery, despite the factions within District Four. The only conclusion, [as death himself is never out of season], had been to expand inland, rather than out to sea.
> 
> (Or, dealing with the grief is as trying as dealing with the body. Sort of?)

Numb. Everything is numb. Days pass, and though Finnick goes through his routines, he does them within the confines of his house. Guilt is pressed into his skin. It is burrowing in, under doors and through cracking windows, until it burns from the inside out. Acidic, with self-loathing. His mother is dead. She had hardly been a sweet, nurturing presence. She was tough, often emblazoned in her stances by drink. 

_(She's still my mother.)_

He has not seen his mother in person in about two years. The last conversation they had, between the two of them, she called him a whore and a slut. He called her a deranged drunk and been cast out along cuss words and shattering bottles. He had sent her some money, through a third party from Town. That same party, a man named Havi, had come to Finnick, on Mrs. Odair's behalf, when she needed more.

_(She's still my mother.)_

Now, she won't need any more.

 _More for me,_  he thinks. _Isn't that splendid?_

(He'd give his riches to the District's poor, if he thought they'd swallow their pride to accept it.)

_[If I cared enough.]_

“Eat.” sounds from behind. Finnick jumps. Mags places a hand on his back, steadying him. He avoids looking up, instead training eyes on his coffee table before him. “Need to, boy.”

Finnick nods stiffly, but cannot bring himself to move.

A heavy sigh sounds, and her feet shuffle away. Finnick hears the cannery's noon bell in the distance. Mags enters the room again. Feet drag along the floor, breath labored. A _clink,_  and some chilled chowder appears before him. He grunts his thanks.

It is in-between season. A cool gust of autumn air places a nip to the damp heat of a fading summer. Skin of his back pricks upwards, before he shrugs it off, and settles himself. He will need to begin closing the windows, soon.

Hands shovel the soup-laden spoon into his mouth. He feels the actions of shaky muscles. But raw sensory is distanced.

The simple, peppered stew, which he would normally savor, instead washes through him. Throat gulps. Adam's apple in his throat bobs.

Mags sets across from him, sinking her back against the plush recliner chair. He feels her eyes on him, as he continues eating. He avoids meeting her gaze. When he finishes, his hand lingers on the spoon. He taps it, absentminded, against the side of the empty ceramic.

“Talk, boy,” she says. Her voice is gentle, and he is brought back to the loss of his father and sister. The softness, the surprising kindness reminding him the full breadth of this woman.

_Victor, killer, mentor, friend, mother, survivor._

_Disciplinarian._

_(Therapist.)_

Mags does not sacrifice one title for the other. He wishes he could say the same.

“She wasn’t a conspirator.” Finnick offers, with finality. He does so, knowing Snow is listening in the microphones, and watching in the cameras. At least, he and all the other Victors he has spoken with assume as much. He has never found any, himself, but remains convinced.

Mags clucks her tongue.

"Nothing to say," he tries.

Green eyes drift up to meet blue. He forces a grin with too many teeth. Bone grits as he attempts to maintain the expression.

"Least I'm still pretty, right?"

“Mother,” Mags sighs. _She was still your mother, Finnick._ “Honor.”

Finnicks finds himself snorting.

 _Honor her,_ Mags is saying. He shoves the empty crock away from him, shaking his head.

"It's done, Mags."

 _“Koute_ me,” Mags’ eyes narrow. A gnarled finger points squarely in his direction. There is an accusatory edge in the motion. “You love, you honor. Survive.”

 _Yes, I loved her, and I'll survive this,_  he thinks. _But I have no idea why I bother._

“Fine,” he says, flatly. “I’ll put a bottle of bourbon on her grave. Good enough?”

Mags rises with a huff, heading past him, towards his front door. On her way, she gives a parting cuff to his ear. Finnick cringes. He procrastinates for a good half-hour before his own feet drag him outside.

 

* * *

 

The tension is everywhere. Peacekeepers remain posted at the entry to Victor’s Village. The patrol boats seem to outnumber the fishing vessels offshore. Finnick notices the stares _(when aren’t there stares, after all?)_ and tries to maintain composure. Without cameras, without the Games, he can somewhat pass for normal. Whatever that even means.

When he exits the Village, there is still the constant feeling of being an outsider. That is the sad reality, of winning when everyone else has lost, and you are meant to have become the Slut of the South.

An osprey's nest caps the tall metal lamppost at the entry as he forces himself to go through to the other side. The rusted bones of what once had been a cemetery fence marking a corroded perimeter. 

A few decades ago, it had been decided there would be only one cemetery, despite the factions within District Four. The only conclusion,  _as death himself is never out of season,_  had been to expand inland, rather than out to sea. An entry fence stretches north and and south, though the plots, over the years, have gone well beyond its original boundaries. The fencing is, more or less, updated alongside the plots, but they never have fully fenced the edges. The train line through Four, across a small bog about fifty yards to the rear, marks the western border of the cemetery. Over the years, despite cremated remains being the vast majority, space has begun to seem thin, and beyond the oldest graves, some the plots of early Victors (and Vanquished), there are no eastern or western fences.

The cemetery is inland. Finnick can hardly see the shore, in fact. He does not know whether or not he should be grateful for that. Every other parcel of land here skirts along the waterfront, or at least the inland waterways. Town Square, Waterside, the canneries, Victor's Village, and even Pesca, long ago came to obscure what once must have been a lovely sight from miles inland. Something has always seemed off, about the idea of cold, earth packaging, for a people who prefer to use sea-legs, or spend half their lives under the waves.

Back in the Dark Days, before the First Rebellion, ashes would be scattered to water, or planted in whatever land was nearest the loved ones' respective homes. They had no need for a local cemetery. In the  _(failed)_ War, so many had died, that it had been almost impossible to go through the rituals, with enough speed to put bodies in the ground, before going sour. The Capitol declared it unsanitary and barbaric. Ironic, on several levels. But District Four had to adapt. It was fractured first by industry, part of the Capitol's design, between the poor and upper-class; and then, fractured in this, more personal way. What better way to instill one's own power, than to disassemble local custom?

 _"One day,"_  Finnick had overheard someone from Pesca say, _"We'll not even be allowed cremation! They'll just make us throw our families in a ditch!"_

The clamming marsh has eerily fulfilled that prophecy.

Finnick beats that thought away. His mother's body is not there. Not according to a Peacekeeper record, delivered to Finnick, as the next of kin. No, she had been assigned a plot here. C-092170-01. They had, apparently, slapped on only a cheap, temporary marker.

Compared to what the seventy-four other  _'conspirators'_ have been given  _(a mass grave in soggy earth),_ Finnick should consider himself lucky.

_If only._

Feet follow the narrow, shelled pathway grid, which gives access to the whole of the cemetery. At burial, the citizens are given small, metal markers, for record-holding purposes. They letter them, assign them year-to-date numbers to provide organization. Each year corresponds, alternatingly, with either north or south; Letters A through M are to the north of the entry, while N through Z are to the south. The Capitol keeps track, of how many citizens per District they are losing each year. When they concluded the alphabetical sequence, they repeated the letters, while adding numerical suffixes.

If stone placards are not erected, the dinky, metal posts erode away in the salted, coastal air. All that remains, within a few months, are metal posts sticking up, like muck-eaten fishing poles, upended and left to rot. A few, here and there, will have stone cut with the names of the dead, but most do not.

Mourning, in that way _(in an expensive way),_ is not an option for most. Finnick feels himself slowing, as he approaches lots M and A-1, only a few yards from one another. They had died on different days, and two years apart; but, still, they lie within sight of one another. It is cold comfort. In fact, this feels more like a cold bath.

Finnick takes a deep breath, staring back and forth, until he thinks he might bore a hole in both Mare and Finn Odair's tombstones. A hand reaches up, runs down his face, and he tells himself to continue moving. He continues, until he can see the newly posted continuation of the fence. Yet-untamed willows and flowering bushes (which Finnick knows only well enough to appreciate their lack of poison) denote where death has not come to rest yet. He knows that, in this direction, he will find his mother.

The heat is at its peak, though, luckily, the sun is veiled by clouds which promise a sun-shower.

He follows,  _follows, follows,_ the path, checking through the numbers until something catches his eye.

Jade sea-glass, wrapped about one of placards along a thin, worn-out string.

_Jobe Cresta._

No gravestone, no legible plaque announces this, yet it is perfectly clear that Annie has been here and decorated her father's grave-post. Finnick pauses, blinking and trying to remind himself to continue. Here he is, surrounded by a dead silence, while something sweet and sentimental is making its way through his senses.

 _This is wrong,_ he thinks.  _Why am I even here?_

"Should've brought that bottle of bourbon," Finnick murmurs, under his breath. He swallows and forces himself to continue.

When he finally finds the number of his mother's grave, Finnick begins to wonder again and again,  _Why am I here?_  It certainly is not going to heal his wounds; it will not help him tell his mother the reasons damn, the  _reasons,_ for his being the way he is. He will never understand, in the same manner, her reasons for being as she is. _  
_

_Was._

Mind is whirling, but he stands there, staring. The mound is still fresh, an opened scar against the grassed-over graves of previous months and years around it.

"Say something," a quiet statement catches in the wind.

It makes Finnick spin around.

_Annie._

Finnick's throat tightens, on instinct. He is not meant to let people see him being weak.

"Do you mind?" he does not mean to come off as harsh. The words, though, have left the building long before the mind registers who he is speaking with, and how she looks.

And, Annie Cresta looks, in a word,  _mad._

Eyes are bloodshot, watery. Eyelids are reddened, under-eyes bagged purple beyond relief. Hair is a mess of windswept and slept-in and frizz. Her skin, though freckled, is pale. It is the defensive set of her shoulders, and the hanging of her clothing that concern him most.

She is gaunt. She has never been a large person, petite and trim, instead. Her trimness, though, had been with muscle, and in proportion to the rest of her. How she has lost weight like this, gotten this bad, this quick, is beyond him.

Then, Finnick remembers:  _Annie Cresta is in withdrawal._

_(Annie Cresta is going to suffer._

_It's on Snow's wish-list for year 71.)_

 

"Say something," hands gesture lazily at the grave-mark; her voice frays at the edges before she visibly goes distant, and begins scratching at her own neck. "Hello."

"Hello," Finnick's response sounds more like a question; when he next opens his mouth, he actually intends it. "Why?"

"Because..." voice trails. Before he knows it, she has his hand in hers. "Say something."

She is swinging their hands, back and forth. 

"I _saaay_ things," she sing-songs, with a nod. "And it makes it go away, sometimes. For a little while."

Finnick sighs heavily, closing his eyes. He always has something _to_ say, it is true; but not now, not to a pile of dirt, and buried bones. Not in front of a girl who is clearly having a hard enough time, herself.

_Count to ten, Finnick._

He feels her hand slow its swing, until they are simply holding hands, neither moving. When he opens his eyes, Finnick peeks over to see that she is covering her other ear with her free hand.

"Annie?"

"I don't like it here."

"So go home."

Annie blinks, staring at the ground.

"Say something?"

 _Say something, and I'll go home_ , Finnick interprets.

"Look-"

"It's good to say things..." she trails again. A small smile appears on her lips, but it seems dopey, and confused. So, terribly _wrong._

He gives her hand a squeeze, but there is no reaction.  Untangling himself from Annie's fingers, Finnick returns to staring at his mother's placard.

After a few minutes, when the breeze begins attacking their eyes, kicking the dust of recently-covered graves around them, Finnick offers to walk Annie home. She  _ho-hums_ in agreement. 

Outside of the Town's sweet-shop, Annie pauses, reaching a hand out to Finnick but failing to make it all the way there. Finnick pauses, stares at her hand as if it is the strangest object on the planet.

"I want...," Annie's voice falters. She is staring at Finnick, and he is avoiding her eyes. "To go home."

"That's where we're heading."

"No, no," Annie's head shakes vehemently. Finnick allows his eyes to meet hers. Her head is tilting, forehead pinching. "I want to  _be_ home. I want to _feel_  home. You know?"

He tries to understand, but the clouds begin to roll overhead, and the wind is kicking up garbage pails and shuddering screen-doors. A window-shutter above them slaps shut with such a force that Annie flinches. He holds out his hand, and she takes it, with surprising eagerness. She gives his hand a slight squeeze. He offers a slight smile, whatever reassurance that might provide. He notices, as they pass through crowds, how she presses herself in his direction; how her breathing begins to quicken, and her eyes avert to the ground. When they have reached the edge of town, and there are less passersby, she begins to look up again, begins to breathe more evenly. They are ambling across the causeway, off to the side, where paved road meets sandy grass and shells and rocks. 

"Home shouldn't have graves." Annie says, suddenly. Finnick quirks a brow, and to his surprise, she smiles at him, nodding. "Just happy things."

"That'd be nice," Finnick manages. He cannot say that he is lying, either. "And it wouldn't need graves, either, since no one would die, to begin with, I suppose?"

He does not intend to sound mocking (though, honestly, he had known the words did so before they left his mouth). Annie's lips purse, and she looks to the side, watching the shore.

"You think I'm crazy." the wind nearly catches the words away from her. When a sad look appears on her face, he knows he heard correctly.

"No, not crazy." Finnick shakes his head. "Just-"

"Is okay," Annie shrugs, looking back at the ground as they continue to walk. "I'm not always _well._  I'm just..."

A hand makes a meaningless gesture towards Victor's Village and she sighs.

"You don't need to defend yourself," Finnick interjects, trying to keep his voice quiet, but wanting her to hear him well enough. "Not to me." He pauses, hearing himself. He cringes _(because I don't really understand,_ he thinks, _because you might have to defend yourself against a dirty bastard like me, Annie)_ , before moving on. "Mags, either. We get it. You're just... different."

"Like, 'stop eating the cabinets,' different?" Annie asks. A small smile tells Finnick that she is partially teasing. That is a good sign.

"If you eat Mags' cabinets, it's one less thing I need to spring-clean." Finnick adds a wink, and is relieved by the  _tut-tut-tut_ laugh he receives as a reward. "That's a good kind of different, in my book."

Silence is interrupted by the wind and the hiss of sand as it meets wind. Annie's bare feet step on shells and rocks alike, with the indifference only a native Four could do. Finnick smiles, remembering whenever he and Mare had walked around barefoot, and nearly gotten the tar kicked out of themselves by their mother. Even after she had no longer been in control of his life, he has always worn sandals or something on his feet. Less touching up than was already bound to be done back in the Capitol. He has callouses like fish have wings.

"Mama always said I was 'soft'," Annie says after a beat. "Cried a lot. Singing and tickling're the only things that helped. Papa tried to show me how to boil a lobster once. I was seven. Didn't come out of my room for 'couple days."

"Boiling lobsters is terrifying," Finnick agrees. Annie nods, expression grave.

"I'd named him Lobby," she contributes. She side-eyes Finnick, shyly.

"Lobby the Lobster?" he smiles. His own sincerity should not breed the kind of relief he feels.

"Mhm."

They are approaching the incline into the Village, when Annie stops in her tracks. Finnick pauses when she does. She reaches down for a sparkling, white shell, hidden away, in the grassy side of the hill. It had been deposited, most likely, during one of the higher storm tides months ago, in hurricane season.

Finnick has forgotten their hands are still interlaced, and allows his arm simply to stretch to its limits, tug him in whatever direction she is headed. He finds a small smile on his lips when she hands the shell to him.

"That's why...," Annie trails before shaking her head. It takes Finnick a moment to realize that she is still speaking about what they had been, some paces ago. Once the sand is dusted off of the shell, the two continue walking. "It's funny, they wanted me to train, because we were taking out so many tesserae, but they needed the tesserae because of what they were spending on my training."

A sad smile accompanies a light laugh. Annie swings their hands again. They slow, as the cobblestone beneath their feet paves the way to both of their houses.

Finnick pauses, and Annie follows suit. Her head tilts, and she swings their hands again.

"D'you want to make dinner?" Annie asks.

"Sure."

Annie tugs her hand from his, fidgeting with her hair enough to pull it into a loose ponytail. Her lips hang opened for a long time before she grins, mischievously.

"Last one guts the fish!" and with that, Annie Cresta runs towards her house.

Finnick runs after her, as soon as he realizes the challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (because I need some cute things, too, kinda!)  
> thankyouthankyou for reading! I hope this makes sense my brain was all over while writing this? if there's anything problem-wise, let me know. I lovelovelove feedback / getting comments and such so please feel freeee!! xoxo <3


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hugs are more intimate than kisses, and cat hair is awfully clingy, even if you don't yourself own a cat.
> 
> (Or, things progress and regress.)

The ingredients are alphabetized. Even the ‘eggs’ _(the small, runty kind you get at discount in some seedy black market far away from Waterside or Town)_ rest carefully between ‘dill’ and ‘flour.’ It really should not come as a surprise.

All of the needed ingredients for their simple, battered fish fry, are lined up. Good little soldiers on the edge of the kitchen counter. Finnick returns, with the fish separated from their raw, smelly guts. His back is hot from the beating hot breath of the sun. Sweat trickles down his back and forehead, stinging his eyes. He leaves his shoes on the back steps.

Bare feet find relief in the cooler sands in the house's shadows, even more so in the wooden, interior floors. All the home's windows are wide-opened. The salty, noisy breeze blows through each window with ease. The crickets out in the backyard marsh, and the call of gulls soaring overhead, lends to a contentment that both settles and unnerves the Golden Boy. Home contents him. But contentment is always short-lived.

Finnick holds the bucket of their cleaned prizes up for show and tell as he cuts through the pantry. They are not fresh, not from today, at least. No, Annie’s home had enough frozen fish in her icebox to last at least a week, if not more. Though the subject has not been broached, Finnick feels certain this had been Aslin and Bo’s doing. They must have stocked up, in case of a complete lockdown.

Apparently, the new Head Peacekeeper has threatened as much for the District, since day one on the job.

 _Perris,_ the new man's name is. Mags says his father is a notorious brute, back in Two. He helped to _'take care'_ of a Victor, Lyme's family, some fifteen years ago. She refused Snow's offer of _service_ to the nation. It had been messy, but not enough so for it to be heard of outside of the District. Mags knows, of course, but then Mags knows more than she lets on. About everything.

 _Speaking of,_ Finnick considers.  _I wonder where she's stored that memory drive._

(It is better not to ask.)

Annie blinks as Finnick enters the room. Her expression quickly turns to one of revulsion. She plugs her nose, between thumb and forefinger. A dishtowel comes flying at his head. Finnick quirks a brow. He steps back, standing between the pantry and the kitchen.

“What?” he asks, baffled.

“You sthink!” Annie exclaims, sticking out her tongue and making a gagging sound. Her voice sounds funny, with her nostrils blocked, like that.

Finnick grins. “Oh, do I?”

“Out, out!” Annie picks the dish towel with her free hand, raising it as if to threaten her companion.

“Oh, honey,” he juts his hips, shifting his weight to his right foot as he gives a smug wink. “Is that any way to greet a man who’s been slaving for _hours_ out back, just for you?”

“You’ll sthink everything up!”

“Well, I did lose the race.”

Annie nods, conceding that point, at least. “Dun’ mean you should make my kitchen sthmell so bad.”

“How’s about a deal?”

Annie’s smile turns bemused, though her nose is still plugged. “Wha’ sort?”

“I’ll wash up, if you gut the fish next time.”

It is only after the words have left his lips that Finnick realizes the potential for a trigger. Strange, as she had said the words, herself. Is it different when they are said _to_ her, and not _by_ her? To his surprise, her eyes close for only a few minutes, body rocking back and forth, before she is able to recenter herself.

“Next time,” she repeats distantly, still swaying.

Finnick waits a few minutes, listening to the sound of the wind rustling the reeds, the _tick-tick-ticking_ of the clock over the sink. Her eyes flicker up to him, seeming more focused.

She sends the dishtowel after him a second time, grin emerging. “Take sthoap from the pantry, stinky.”

Finnick leaves the bucket of cleaned fish on the floor, heading to the outdoor hose with the suggested item. He strips down to his boxers, hosing down slacks and shirt before washing himself up. Though initially heated by the sun, the water abruptly bursts against tanned flesh like pelting ice. Finnick grits his teeth and bares it.

As he enters the house, for the third time today, Finnick freezes, seeing the raw, gutted fish still in the bucket where he had left them not ten minutes earlier.

“Annie?” Finnick catches a wiff of what smells like burnt fabric, and his stomach churns as he remembers--

_Mare’s flesh, dress burnt to a crisp--_

_undamaged portions of her body badly bloodied with clothing ripped off--_

_[dress pulled up above her hips]--_

“Annie!” he is yelling before he knows it, stumbling over his feet, rounding a corner, only to slam into her, tripping over her and knocking them both down.

“Ow,” Annie mumbles, rubbing her sore elbow and sitting up.

She shakes out her palms. Thankfully, she had rolled to the side. Her left arm and right palm had broken her fall, and Finnick had diverted his weight before he crushed her with his landing. She looks up at Finnick curiously, tilting her head to one side as he scrambles back to his feet.

“Oops?” she giggles, before her expression falters. "Finnick?"

“Y--”

Finnick cannot speak for a moment, swallowing over a lump in his throat. The smell still lingers in the air, burning, burning, burning fabric, and Finnick spins about. He spots it, then, an oven mitt left next to where Annie had begun to heat the sauce. Long legs make a quick approach, hands flinging the alight mitt into the sink, dousing it with water.

His heart is pounding in his chest, fingers gripping the countertop as eyes press shut with a vengeance. He bends forward at the hips, focusing on his breathing.

_Count to ten, Finnick, count to ten._

_(You know they wouldn’t do anything to her._

_Not yet.)_

It is not that the smell triggers him, it’s not like the nightmares or the drinks or that feeling when they penetrate-- no, just that it means something, in the context of one of these houses. The fear of the flicker of a memory, and the recent loss of someone who he (despite himself) loved--

_Count to ten._

“--had to go to the bathroom,” her words come through cotton balls, and a ting-bing-ringing in his ears.

His lids open, green beads hesitating to meet her gaze. He sees her legs, upside down, as she approaches him from behind.  

“I’m sorry, Finnick.”

He still says nothing, stares at the floor. He cannot seem to unclench his fingers from the granite counter.

“Are you okay?” Annie asks quietly.

Her voice is always so soft.

“It’s nothing,” is the quick retort. He finds his hands are still locked in place, but at least he is beginning breathe normally. His heart is slow to pick up on the lack of a threat _(with it being such a rarity, after all),_ and Finnick continues counting in his head. Water is still pouring out of the faucet and there is a roiling, rolling shriek inside of his head that makes calming down more difficult. Scents of burnt fabric linger in the air.

_One, two, three, four, five, six-_

“Finnick?” a hand makes him flinch when it is placed on his back. “Sorry, sorry!”

Annie’s eyes have widened, and he jerks his head to look at her. She is beginning to panic now.

_Damnit._

_(Is this some disease we pass between us two?)_

“I-- _padon,_ didn’t mean to, didn’t mean… it--”

She begins to trail off, into her own little world, her little escape, so similar to his. Fingers flutter nervously, hands wringing themselves.

"I'm sorry--"

Eyelashes close and she is inhaling deeply, just like him. Goose-flesh flushes up her arms, and she scratches at the ripples. Finnick looks away. He slaps the tap, to stop the flow of water. At the least, it lessens the sounds, but it does not change the number of distractions about them.

“We’re a damn mess,” Finnick mutters to himself. His Adam’s apple bobs again, the tightness in his throat keeping him from saying anything.

She shudders, shaking her head as hands slap at her ears. He does not understand.

_(She was here, she was fine_

_We were joking, she was laughing_

_I don’t understand how she goes from that to this-)_

He does understand, though, in a way. He goes through the same thing, just handles it differently.

_(In other words, you don't 'handle' it at all.)_

“Hey,” his voice falters, and he pauses to clear his throat. “Calm down-”

 _“Estipid,_ this is so stupid-- I hate this,” she begins muttering in a breathless whisper. _“San tout lòt peyi sou men kenbe bliye-_ big, fat baby-”

“Annie-”

 _"Manke lakay, mwen manke lakay-_ why is it like this-?"

He puts a hand on her wrist, and though she hunches her shoulders up, she does not withdraw from him.

"I don't understand," she whispers. She is not looking at him, head jerking down. "Is it real...?"

“It’s me. Remember?" His thumb smoothes the surface of her skin. She shudders again, and he lets go. "It’s Finnick.”

“Finnick hates me,” she says dismissively.

“No,” Finnick says, firmly. He ignores the guilt which blooms in abundance. “No, he doesn’t.”

Eyelashes flutter, and Annie slowly blinks, staring at the floor.

“And you’re not stupid.”

"Annie's crazy."

"No, she's not," he insists.

"Please don't--" she breaks off, swallowing and staring intently at the ground. "I'm sorry, I'm just... I don't feel right. I think I got sick. The needles made it better."

He can see her hands shaking.

Finnick takes a step back. He does not want to invade her space. Speaking has always been his strong point, and speaking might help to keep Annie here. Finnick thinks _(or tries to)_ of something safe.

_Tell a story, Finnick._

_(You’re bursting at the seams with them,_

_you ugly bastard.)_

The shrieking in his head is beginning to dull down, though it does not fully go away. _She_ does not feel right. He needs to focus on that. It is easier, when it is not him.

“Once, when I was a kid, I thought I could heal all the jellies that got dragged up on the beach,” he begins. Her eyes flick up, for the briefest moment, to meet his own, before returning to the floor. “So I decided the only way to save them was to bring them indoors. Like fish tanks, yeah?”

“Yeah?” Annie exhales an echo back at him. It is better than nothing. Hands slide off of her ears, down to linger on her neck. Not gripping, but with a lack of alternative purpose.

“Yeah, so,” Finnick pauses, laughing at his own memory.

_(Time to play the jester, time to play the clown)_

_Tell a story, Finnick._

Annie lifts a brow, peeks at him, uncertainly. It might almost be teasing.

 _And they call me crazy?_ he can practically hear her ask. He gives her a wink, and he thinks, when she averts her gaze again, that she is trying to hide a blush.

“I collected them in buckets, filled them with ocean water. Lined them up on the back stoop. I decided to bring them back to our bathtub-- we lived in one of Watersides's townhouses. Ours was the top floor, mother’s cousins lived downstairs. Anyway, I’m hauling these buckets up two flights of stairs, and they’re nearly twice my weight, 'cos I'm all of about five, yeah? And my cousin, she’s the oldest, she’s got this look. She could just freeze you on the spot, with a look, right? So, she sees me and asks what I’m doing. I tell her, _'I’m trying to save the jellies!'_ And d’you know what she did?”

Annie hesitates a moment, eyes still not entirely focusing, before looking up at Finnick.

“What’d…” her lips flail for a moment. “He do?”

“She,” Finnick corrects, with a small smile.

_(In reality, Sira had called Finnick’s mother, and he had gotten a good whipping out on their back yard post._

_But Finnick has always been a good storyteller.)_

“What’d _she_ do?”

“She told me I was an idiot, but, I got the final word.”

“Oh.”

It might have bothered him, in fact it should bother him, that there is a disinterest, in Annie’s voice, and even in the words that spill out. Only, he can see a timid smile tugging at her lips. Her eyes are focused on him. It is relieving, in a manner which Finnick finds incomparable.

_(Come on, Annie, come back._

_I know you want to.)_

“She chased me out the house, then she went to tackle me to the ground!” Finnick pauses for dramatic flair. “Only I tripped her up, sent her headfirst into the sand. When I went to dump the jellies in my bucket out on her-”

“Finnick!” Annie admonishes, shaking her head. She is barely hiding in an amused smile.

“She went flying into the water, to scrub them out." Finnick grins cheekily. "But some of them started wiggling around. I guess they weren’t as dead as we thought they were.”

Annie’s head tilts to one side, before her hands rub at her own temple. Finnick wants the smile back, but he can see it is fading from her lips. He is concerned that she is going to get lost again.

_(What do you care, Finnick?_

_She’s not a toy._

_No renmen li.)_

“And that is how I became Finnick Odair, Jellyman Extraordinaire.” Finnick makes and dramatic flourish with his right hand, followed by an exaggerated bow.

At that, Annie wrinkles her nose, laughing with a _tut-tut-tut._

“Are not.”

“Are, too,” Finnick retorts with a wink. “I’m the jellies’ favorite. I make them squirt-”

“Jellies don’t squirt, that’s squids and octopus-”

“Fine, then. I’m so pretty, I make all the jellies come back to life.”

"Yeah, right." Annie teases, sticking her tongue out. "I'd like some photographic proof, please."

"Are you calling me a liar?!" Finnick feigns offense, placing a hand to his cheek in mock horror. "Annie Cresta, you wound me."

Annie rolls her eyes, looking away and _ho-humming_ to herself. The smile is slowly being drained from her face, and Finnick follows her line of sight to the stovetop. The sauce is beginning to curd in the center, while on the edges the boiling liquids threaten to spill over the little, silver saucepan. A quick switch of the knob quells the frenzy, though when he turns to Annie, she still appears slightly off-color.

“You all right?” he asks, trying to keep his tone neutral as can be.

“Yes?” her brow furrows and her eyes slip shut again, and she begins shaking her head. “No? I don’t- I keep getting sick… forgetting. Chills and hot and I'm so tired, Finnick. I just want a nice meal but I…”

She trails and when her eyes open once again they are glistening.

“Ruin everything,” she mouths, voice barely bringing sound to the words.

“You don’t,” Finnick shakes his head. “You don’t, Annie.”

Annie nods. “It's just… it's not...”

She trails off and shrugs. Finnick holds out a hand. He is glad, when she takes it, for the comfort and warmth. For the lack of pressure, but bounty of compassion.

“Got,” Annie resumes, looking at the floor. “Distracted. Everything’s wrong.”

Finnick gives her hand a squeeze.

“Can I ask you a favor?” she asks, staring at his hands.

“Other than gutting the fish?” Finnick teases, but when she does not smile, his own mock-joviality dissipates. “What favor?”

“Can you give me a hug?” her voice sounds so small, and broken, and breaks off at the edges. "I..."

“Of course,” he whispers.

He pulls her in, tight, and is glad when she returns the embrace in kind. Her cheek against his chest is warm, the warmth radiating from one sad lump of a Victor to the other, and back again. _The eternal cycle._ Hands on her back, he can feel her breathing begin to slow, to calm. His own lungs copy her. They are little mimes: one flushes, the other is warmed; one breathes easy, the other is calmed.

 _“Mèsi,”_ she whispers.

“Of course.”

_(You shouldn’t thank me, he thinks._

_This is as much for me, as it is for you.)_

_[this is as bad for you as it is for me]_

_No renmen li, Finnick._

Finnick rests his chin on the top of her head, trying to ignore that _ping,_ that something in his chest, something _sentimental_ and _fluttering_. He does not know, yet, whether he resents it or adores it.

_(Some wicked voice hisses at him,_

_spits out: **her**. You mean, **her** , not **it**._

_The feeling is **her** , which means you want her, pretty boy.)_

He envisions locking the Capitol shark inside in mind in a deep, dark cage.

“Better?” he manages to ask.

_Can I let go now, Annie?_

_(Please say I can.)_

Annie nods, but makes no other move to depart from his arms.

He begins to wonder, if they stayed here like this, if they could turn to salt, turn to some rusted monument:

_‘Here lie the king and queen of screwed and screwed-up._

_Never did anyone screw them as well as they did themselves.’_

He is afraid that the phone will ring, ring, ring and it will be threat, threat, threat. That is too much to handle.

“Can I ask you a favor, now?” Finnick asks, voice quiet. Her head turns, and she presses her face against his chest. He can feel the cooler tip of her nose, through the fabric of his still-damp clothing. She inhales deeply, exhaling hot, damp breath against his chest. Her hands shift against his back, tactile sensation gentle, and smooth. He tries to ignore the stiffening he feels; the trembling in his skin.

_(You like this, Golden Boy?_

_Want to hold her down, like they do to you?_

_Want to watch her bleed?_

_No,_ he cringes.

_No, no, **no** -)_

And then, Annie makes a scoffing sound.

“You still stink,” Annie mumbles.

Finnick chuckles, feels relief. Feels as if he can push the darker clouds away. He loosens his arms from around her, letting them fall to his own sides. Annie pulls back, _ever-so-slight, ever-so-delicate,_ and looks up at him. Her arms curl around her core. He feels that twinge again, and the shark is resurfacing. He is fighting to keep it under.

“But, sure.”

"Don't, uh," Finnick clears his throat, rustles his hair. “Don’t turn on the stove, anymore, if you’re by yourself.”

Annie’s lips hang opened for a moment, before she frowns at him.

“Or, at least,” Finnick stammers, realizing how condescending he must sound. “At least, make sure you’re in the room if-”

“I get it,” Annie quips shortly. Her lips purse, and her eyes close. Fingernails, he realizes, are pressing into the flesh of her own upper arms.

“Annie,” he uses a sharp, commanding tone, and her eyes fly opened, blinking at him. He takes a step forward. “Look-”

Annie recoils from an outreached hand, face growing contorted; brow is furrowed, nose is wrinkled. She is looking at him as if he will rip her hands off.

“I didn’t mean to say…” he does not know how to finish his sentence. “Just, if that happened again-”

“I know,” she admits, shifting uncomfortably. Her shoulders hunch, making her look smaller than she already is. She glares at the floor. He has never seen her with that sort of hostility.

“There could’ve been a fire-”

“I _know,”_ she repeats, before pursing her lips into a tight line. She rolls her eyes, and Finnick is reminded, with a jolt, of the fact that she is, really, younger than him than he tends to remember. “I’m not four years old.”

“Okay,” Finnick concedes. "It's-"

 _"Finnick."_ she says his name sharply, before huffing heavily, and turning to the stovetop. She is attempting to salvage the sauce. Finnick has nothing to contribute, so he keeps his mouth shut.

There is a tense silence. The front door opens, and a holler signals Aslin’s presence.

“Annie-ba-nannie!” Aslin comes in the room, giving Annie a warm hug. The warmth cools, once the older woman sees Finnick. “What’re you doing here?”

Annie looks at the floor.

"Nothing," Finnick clears his throat. "I'll go."

Annie's head shoots up. Finnick snatches his shoes from besides the back door, before coming back through the kitchen. He passes the newest Victor with a too-tight smile on his lips.

"Next time, you gut the fish, darling."

He does not think the words are harsh. Not until he plays them over in his head.

 

* * *

 

"Mags?" he calls as he enters the older Victor's house.

A disinterested grunt greets him. The television offers a quiet din off to the right. Finnick cuts into the sitting room, flopping down next to his mentor on the couch. He drapes his still-shoed feet across her lap, and the old woman clucks. She shoves his feet off of herself, giving him a disapproving look.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks, cheeky grin telling her _(silently)_ that, whatever it is she is about to say, he would like to postpone it as long as possible.

She ruffles his hair lovingly before pinching his ear, so he knows he is in just enough trouble to warrant whatever talking-to he is going to get.

“C’mon,” Finnick groans, rolling his eyes.

Mags shakes her head, standing up with a wince before shuffling her way towards the kitchen.

 _She's walking well, today,_ Finnick muses.

Perhaps there is something to all of her naps, after all. _Resting up the old bones,_ as she likes to say.

Finnick follows her into the downstairs office. Finnick has never been in this office, except, perhaps once before. It is sparse, though bookshelves are cluttered with haphazardly abandoned boxes. Everything is coated in layer upon layer of dust. Mags motions to the top shelf, where only one, lonely box sets. It is small, a light brown with waterstains on the sides and top. When Finnick dislodges it, the action unleashes a flurry of mothballs and fuzzy white-and-orange cat hairs. Nearly dropping the parcel in a coughing fit, Finnick bats at the dirty air, handing Mags the box absentmindedly.

“Jeez, Mags, of all the places you have me exploring, you choose where Abel used for his litter box?!” Finnick whines.

Abel Brown, a white-and-orange tabbycat, had died shortly after Finnick’s Victory. Finnick still finds a stray hair on his own clothes, all these years later, though the cat had been quiet content to laze about in Mags' home. At the ripe old _(grumpy)_ age of twenty-three, he had hardly been perching or climbing bookshelves anywhere in the last few years of his life. That being said, he obviously had used this long-abandoned space for his personal nesting ground.

Mags swats at Finnick’s head, but just misses her mark by an inch or two. The woman jerks her head towards the desk, moving over to set the box down. She seats herself in one of two, plush chairs. Finnick flops onto the one next to her. The springs groan, dust spitting up. Finnick swats at the air, _pthew_ -ing his tongue until the mess settles. Mags carefully removes the cover of the box, taking out a yellowed, crinkle-edged photo-book. She gingerly opens to the first page.

"Tell a story," Finnick says quietly. He raises a brow at his mentor, smirking. "This better be good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts? (I've been on cold medicine this week so) let me know if this needs tweaking or is inconsistent or anything? MAGS STORYTIME TBC.  
> thankyouthankyou for reading!! <3


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No."   
> At that, his eyes snap up. Her blues meet his own, and he is struggling, because it is unapologetic, unabashed. No lies, here, and he reminds himself, that never once did she say, she could not sympathize with what they do to Finnick, only that she could not empathize, not entirely.  
> "I don't understand."  
> I don't understand why you're showing me this.  
> I don't understand why you've waited to show me this.  
> I don't understand. Please make this make sense.  
> (If you can, that is.)  
> The worn, weathered skin of her hand brushes across the (fallaciously) smoothed skin of his own.  
> "Before."

It starts like this:

_There are two young women, one black of hair, one fair; one shorter, more muscular, where the other is thin, with an elegant set to her shoulders. In this first photograph, there are wide smiles upon the faces of those around them. Average, District Four citizens seem to gaze lovingly at the pair. Their arms encircle one another, entwine and wind about. The wind of the seashore, which rolls out in the distance, before cutting into a bright sunset behind them, whips contrasting strands into a bizarre, visual imbroglio. The faces are obscured to oblivion, but the air reaches out and presses at the heart._

_Happiness. It started with happiness._

( _But doesn't everything in life, Finnick?)_

The next is this:

_Smiles more tight, a lone pair of women pressing through a sea of cameras, a gauntlet of Capitol onlookers. The fashions, though hardly as unsettling as today's vogue, still sets apart the women, simply white-clad with little makeup. The expressions about them are just as doting, but the main figures, virginally achromatic in their vestment, reek of something else. It stirs and bites and nips. It is bitter and gnawing._

_Suspicion. Discomfort._

There are too many negatives in this picture.

The only positive is recognition. And Finnick recognized the shorter of the two, dark of hair with keen blue eyes which bore into the camera. He can feel them piercing into him, even on a simple four-by-six print.

 _Mags._  Young Mags, in a white wedding dress. A wedding dress, which complimented that of her companion. The translation comes slow, to a boggled mind.

Mags had a wedding ceremony in the Capitol, to another woman.

"What..." Finnick stares, as if he shall find some explanation in the photograph, or discover the trick his mind has played upon him.

 _Safe to talk here,_ she had said, moments ago. He has not questioned how she knows this, how she can be so certain; or if she knows, whether the rest of the house for sure is bugged.

 _Safe to talk,_ Finnick muses, now.  _Must be safe to think, then, too, right?_

She had been younger, far younger. A Victor, no doubt, for why else would the Capitol have taken interest? Mature, buxom and flowering. She was beautiful. So much more vibrant and _sweet-looking_ than she had ever been, by sight, in all of Finnick's nineteen years. He has never seen her as a young woman. Stories, oh, he could tell a thousand- how she could just remember the year of the First Games, how she had finally accomplished the task of tying her own shoes, rather than stuffing the in the tongues and hoping for the best. He has heard, how she mastered fish hooks, heard her tricks of the trade. He has heard, more than once, about how she had managed to out-fish the older boys at school, despite being barely thirteen. How she had been quick and agile, as an eighteen-year-old. How she was a _Career_ before District Four, and most of Panem, fully grasped the value of the word.

Between Finnick and Mags, conversations are almost superficial, in their own way. They dwell mostly upon the present. They have spoken more of Finnick than of _befores_ or  _afters_. Images, visual proof, have been far more rare. Reflection is not the aim of the Capitol's Games, after all, despite the yearly reminder of the District's _horrendous_ sin. No, reflections upon anything but the Capitol's ceaseless power and _generosity_ are strictly taboo.

Suffering is the only reflection they truly want the Districts to focus on.

Mags' own reflections, well, they come in bites, masked in clouds of ambiguity. Her displayed photographs on the mantle of her sitting room do not go this far back. The programming has never done, either, though everyone knows she won the Eleventh Games. After all, why would they show ancient Games from nearly sixty years passed? The Capitol does not have that sort of attention span. That Mags would conceal these photographs, though, that is peculiar.

Finnick would guess she had barely been five-and-twenty.

His head is spinning.

"Why haven't I seen this-?"

"Hush," Mags pats his shoulder gently. A gnarled finger strokes carefully, across the face of the taller, blonde woman. "Lali."

 _Why didn't I even know that you had been wed?,_ Finnick wants to ask. And then,  _How the hell did two women have a son?_

"Lali," Finnick repeats. The disbelief carries on his voice. "Your wife?"

A curt nod. The page turns. The room physically remains the same temperature, still, Finnick becomes colder than before.

Because there is this:

_Two nude women, limbs entwining one another. One with hair black as night, bright blue eyes wide, dilated; the other, with corn-yellow hair, hazel-brown eyes. The latter woman’s head is thrown back, mouth opened wide. The former has a wide, mischievous smile, toothy grin crooked so that a smirk is the more appropriate description._

Finnick's expression becomes a mixture of disgust and horror. Yet green eyes find an incapacity with regards to averting.

"Snow." it feels as if he is swallowing that same, sickly poison. He wants to light the name on fire, shred it and watch it bleed, as if the name, alone, dying would be any comfort. It is not as if they can kill the man who bears it. "This was Snow."

"No." 

At that, his eyes snap up. Her blues meet his own, and he is struggling, because it is unapologetic, unabashed. No lies, here, and he reminds himself, that never once did she say, she could not _sympathize_ with what they do to Finnick, only that she could not  _empathize_ _,_ not entirely.

"I don't understand."

_I don't understand why you're showing me this._

_I don't understand why you've waited to show me this._

_I don't understand, Mags. Please make this make sense._

_(If you can, that is.)_

The worn, weathered skin of her hand brushes across the (fallaciously) smoothed skin of his own.

"Before," Mags clears her throat. Her nose wrinkles with discontent, and Finnick would cringe, at her obvious frustration with herself, if it were not for the circumstances. "Kensa."

 _President Kensa._ Finnick barely has enough information to form a distinct opinion upon the man who preceded President Snow. If he made these photographs happen, exploited Mags and her partner, Finnick would not be opposed to having the deceased leader's rotted head on a pike.

"We made," Mags gestures, tapping the photograph. Finnick can feel her stare, assessing him, as he focuses upon the picture.

_We made._

Lali and Mags made these photographs, not President Kensa, nor President Snow. They stripped themselves, sold the images of themselves being intimate.

Bile is collecting inside of Finnick's mouth.

There is more. 

There is this:

_A party setting. Many figures are gathered about in front of a grand, sprawling ice sculpture, of what appears to be an eagle. Above the figure, also carved of ice, there is a carved '35th Anniversary.' Several dozen fancily dressed individuals fill the crop. Some are seated, some squeezing in at the sides, while others appear to have stood upon some form of high-riser, to form a third row. In the middle of the all, standing just under the sculpture, a young man stands, with a rose in his lapel. Keen blue eyes, like narrowed vultures', sit none-too fair from his disdainful smile. His hand holds a goblet of wine, raised in an apparent toast. A raven-haired woman sits a few paces away, separated from the main figure by a man and a woman who stand proudly, self-important. Mags is dressed, now, in muted tones, though the design is kaleidoscopic. She is older, face fuller, with some lines beginning to appear at the corners. She stares blankly into the camera, her hand raising a glass, as well. Forming a line, in which both the center figure and Mags are a part of, several men and women raise glasses, some with toothy smiles, some with stares mirroring Mags._

The vulture-eyed, young Coriolanus Snow, the center figure in this photograph, lacks the moist, ruby lips which puff and so distinguish him now. He lacks, too, the white hair, and the lines about his drooped, sagging face. The man and woman, who stand tall and proud between Mags and Snow, look vaguely familiar to Finnick. He cannot place why, until the arthritic fingers of his mentor point them out.

"Ossa," Mags confirms, before clearing her throat again. "Final year."

 _Lord and Lady Ossa. Their 'fi_ _nal year' in power._

Finnick hesitates, before his eyes dart back up. "For them?"

Mags shakes her head, before tapping each face in the photograph, sequentially. The message is conveyed. This was the final year for all in this photograph. All, and yet, Finnick notices her fingers end on President Snow's image, without touching her own.

"Who were the others?"

"Victors," she answers immediately, with a flatness that makes Finnick stiffen. "Purged."

"Purged," Finnick repeats. He recalls, some story, from some hazy-daisy, back in the Capitol, about  _purges_ and  _investigations._  Victors, though, Victors had not been mentioned. Though, there is the odd 'disappearance' of most of Mags' generation, not all of which is explained away by age. He lowers his eyes, focusing upon the Mags in the picture. "What did that mean for you?"

She answers with a humorless chuckle.

"Mags?"

Rather than answering, she turns the page. She and Lali are older, now, not the youthful playmates they once had been, but, still, there they are.

"You made this one?" Finnick looks to his mentor, narrowing his eyes. "Why are you showing me-?"

"Gave him idea."

Finnick starts at this, before comprehension turns confusion to anger.

_We sold ourselves, and he saw that selling Victors could be profitable._

Finnick is shaking, and when curled fingers reach out to him, he rebuffs by arising, shoving his seat back with a vengeance.

"Why are you showing me this?" he repeats, words sharper now. "What good do you think this will do?"

Mags watches him for some time. He repeats, repeats, until he is yelling the question. Finally, she snaps the book shut. Her gaze remains locked on the Golden Boy.

 _"Mwen te... renmen_ Lali." her voice is halting, eyes narrowing. "But love does not protect, Finnick."

 _She still ended up dead, Finnick,_ he hears in her words.

Love does not keep people safe. Trading things, however, does.

"Is this about...?" his lips do not allow him to finish the sentence, before anger clenches his throat. His fingers curl into his wrist, nails pressing against the skin  _and he hopes and he hopes and hopes and hopes_ the press will be enough to bleed out whatever dirt is in his veins. Useless endeavor, that is. "You want me... to trade-- to trade  _me,_ to protect her."

Mags scoffs, forehead crinkling. She looks disgusted enough to satisfy him, that he is wrong in his interpretation.

"What, then?"

"She... protect her," Mags drums her fingers a few times.

"You're not making sense." Finnick shakes his head. "She can't-"

"Will," Mags nods, as if backing herself up. "Did."

"Did?"

It hits him.

_She had twirled the memory stick between two fingers. He had wondered where it came from. She had put fingers over his lips, as if sensing his curiosity, then slid it into his pants pocket._

_“You’re good, Finnick,”_ _she had said. “Keep my secret, okay?”_

And the secret was the memory stick, and the memory stick made its way to Mags, _and Mags--_

"You asked her to."

It is not a question, it is an accusation. Mags is staring at him, watching. She is gaging his reaction. The air is too tight, to dusty, and it makes his throat feel raw, makes him feel constricted. 

 _No renmen li,_ she had said. Do not love her, Finnick. Care, because _what else can you do?,_ but do not _love_.

And Mags thinks he is in love, despite that.

"Did she even know what you were asking?"

"Boy-"

"No," he shakes his head, backing his way towards the exit. "Don't tell me I'm the foolish one. Not after this."

 _"Koute_ me-"

"No!" he shouts.

It almost quells the storm he can feel beginning to suffocate him.

_(It still won't be enough, and that's the irony.)_

"What was it?"

"Hush," Mags says, eyes narrowing. The sternness in her voice is not to be trifled with, but she is watching him as one would watch a potential threat. And, never let it be said, that an old woman cannot defend herself, when she has survived eighty-two years in this sort of world. "We need it."

"For what?" Finnick snaps. "It's from Alexander's, he designs mutts. What do you need-?"

"Not me, boy," Mags pauses, clearing her throat. "In Capitol, still. Not here."

He knows the words are difficult to form for her. In another lifetime, he might have apologized, might have let this go, and told her this could wait for another time. But she has initiated this conversation. She has asked a weak, disoriented, terribly vulnerable girl to put her life on the line, and it is likely the girl in question might not even  _realize_  that she has stolen anything at all. If it is still in the Capitol, if it is found, by the wrong people-

"Where?"

Mags shakes her head. "Cannot say."

 _"What_ it is, then?" Finnick asks, voice rising, unintentionally. 

Mags' head leans back, resting against the head of the chair. "Testing."

When she says no more, Finnick exhales heavily, with a huff. "What sort?"

She taps on her temple, and he understands.  _On the mind._ "Ways... keep in line."

 _That shouldn't exactly be a huge secret,_ Finnick thinks with a practiced, yet entirely unintentional, smirk.

"All right," Finnick concedes. "And?"

"Arenas," Mags says, as quietly as she may without being entirely inaudible. "No details, too important."

Finnick does not say anything, waiting for his mentor to continue. She does not.

"Anything else?"

Mags goes no further, but instead, stares at him. Her hesitation, before she finally shakes her head, tells Finnick that she is not being entirely honest. 

"You crossed a line."

"Parents would have-"

"Her parents?"

"You heard," Mags remind Finnick of Mr. Cresta's ' _Fuck the Capitol.'_  But there must be more.

For putting Annie's life on the line, for all the risk that would pose, not only to Annie individually, but to whoever had asked for the information to be stolen, there must be  _something more_ than just the slightest implication that Mr. Cresta was _unhappy_ with the way things were. The way she said  _parents-_

"You knew Mrs. Cresta?" Finnick can practically see the wheels turning in Mags' mind, before she gives a curt nod. "She was part of something. Annie said they shot her."

"Yes," is all he gets in response.

"She was part of... part of a resistance?"

"Annie part, too." Mags adds, watching Finnick with a curious smile. "Helped us-"

"Stop it," Finnick interrupts, narrowing his eyes.

"Annie protect herself, by helping us-"

"Did she  _know,_ Mags? Did you tell her why, did you ask her-"

Mags waves a hand. "You don't understand-"

"I don't?!" Finnick explodes, and Mags goes quiet. "You don't lead a bleeding horse into water, and expect the sharks to leave it be." 

Mags presses her lips together, before looking down at the album in her lap. Finnick opens the door, and is about to stomp on through.

"Access, Finnick." Mags says, quietly. "She had best access."

The tone is a bizarre, sudden reminder of their own suspicions. The room itself might have been safe, but it is possible the rest of the house is not. 

_Cameras, cameras everywhere, and not a snap to see._

It is too late, now, though, and some twinge of worry is ebbed away with anger.

Mags sighs, before continuing. "Bigger... fish to fry."

 _Bigger fish to fry, which I don't trust you with, not yet,_ Finnick hears in her words. And,  _But I'll trust the girl who hallucinates and cries because who believes she's really a threat?_ (And _what does a crazy girl remember, anyway?_ And, _what she doesn't know won't hurt her, right?)_  

"Bigger fish," he repeats. He feels sick. "Get a better damn grill, then."

 

* * *

 

The scent of grilled, battered fish fills the air outside, but Finnick is in a rush to return to the cocoon of his own home. The clouds edging in from offshore release their onslaughts, not too shortly after his return home. Angrily slamming each window shut, he is just finishing upstairs when the tiny drops begin to falter, stopping all together, only once all of his windows are actually closed. Finnick grumbles to himself, kicking a pile of clean laundry he has left to fester with disinterest at the foot of his bed.

He nearly misses the _click-groan_ of his front door opening. Once he realizes, of course, his ears are pricked. He hears his name being called. He knows the voice and groans.

_Annie._

"Go away," he says aloud, before he can help it. 

"Oh," he hears in response. 

Finnick forces himself to leave his room, going to the top of the stairs and seeing Annie waiting, seeming confused.

"Hello," he offers, hoping it is a means of apology.

"'Lo," she murmurs, looking down. 

He notices the foiled plate in her hands, and descends the steps, slowly.

"What's that-?"

Before he can finish the question, or even reached the bottom step, Annie has quickly placed the plate on the floor and flown to the door. She pauses, with the door partway closed behind her, before offering him a shy smile.

"I wrote you a poem," she says.

The door shuts, without Finnick having any response to that.

He sees a small note, folded in two, and taped to the top of the foil. Picking it up, Finnick flips the note opened, and reads scrawling, sloppy handwriting, complete with cross-outs and misspellings.

> _Hi Stinky / Jellyman Extrordinair._
> 
> _Stinking is ~~n't~~ really not a big deal_
> 
> _if ~~yull~~  you'll agree the food tas ~~e~~ tes better then eels._
> 
> _Which I hope it does._
> 
> _This doesn't really rhyme but I hope you like it._
> 
> _Sincerely, Annie Cresta / Mermaid Girl of the West._
> 
>  
> 
> _p.s. I hope you're not angry, because food doesnt taste good if you are._
> 
> _p.s.s.(?) they ~~don't~~ teach ~~us~~ any poetry at the Center, isnt it awful?_
> 
> _(also I meant to write didn't but is sort of the same thing.)_

Finnick feels foolish when he realizes the dumb smile on his face. He takes a deep breath, bringing the plate into his kitchen and setting himself down for some nice, battered and grilled fish.

He wishes he was not eating alone.

And when he pictures Annie with him, he stills, because he is beginning to understand what Mags meant.

 _Not like I love her,_ Finnick tells himself, cutting into the meal and inhaling deeply as the scented steam rises.

But, he admits, he wishes he were eating with her.

The rain begins again outside, and he tries to work up something to send back to her, once the plate is empty.

He tries to figure out how to ask her how much of her secret she remembers.

Instead of figuring anything out, though, he focuses on eating.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does this make sense? yes?  
> THIS ONE TOOK A BIT LONGER because I am indecisive and life is craycray! I could've had a bit posted Saturday into Sunday but it would have been awful and I'd like to think you lovelies deserve muchmuch better, so I hope this will suffice.  
> As always, thankyouthankyou for reading! Please comment / crit / etc. for me, I lovelovelove feedback.   
> Oh, and this is probably the second-to-last chapter of this section, I'm planning on 24-chapter installments but I'm indecisive so that may vary ;D <3


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwelling on the dead never does anyone any good.  
> Nor does making friends, but don't tell anyone I said that.
> 
> (This is quite a long one, beware! also a teensy bit of filler sorry :3)

It pours buckets, on and off, from dawn, on. 

The sun lingers in the sky, an obscured orb of white-and-yellow, behind sickly, grey storm clouds. Thunder and lightning have ripped through the region, on and off. The shocks resound, shuddering the land and structures alike. The wind, and the swell of the water out the back door, are far greater concerns. The red storm flag has been posted over the bell tower atop the Granary, in Town. A boy came about first thing after dawn, to hoist the same sigil just above Victor's Village's so-called Fountain of Victory. The thunder and lightning have died down, in the hours since, though the wind still whistles against the walls. The waves look blackened, whipped into a frenzy from the chaos out past the guarding marshlands. They have somewhat of a buffer, luckily, but the swells still have risen enough to make Finnick wary. They have flood-cellars, beneath all of District Four's coastal homes, including those of the Victors', enough to allow the average surge to run their course, without impacting the structure of the homes. The greatest danger, which lingers, is the potential for propulsion of the shanty watch-shacks, and fishing ships offshore. If the wrong surge or wind collects them in its grasp, the shacks will be nothing but deadly ammunition, aimed directly at the homes on the shore.

Finnick has cleaned Annie's dish carefully, dried it with delicate intent, before glancing out the window. He has piled the borrowed item with candies from the Town Market the other day. Sweetened, popped corn, glazed in a caramelized sauce, have made their way from the icebox to the dish. He arranged and rearranged, until he realized how wasteful with time he had been. Finnick's actions have been deliberately slow, and now he resents himself for the procrastination. It is midday, and he might catch the Crestas all at home for lunchtime. The thought puts a pause on his plans.

That is not really what he had been aiming for.

The idea of apologizing, of trying to speak with Annie about everything, is nerve-racking. Not impossible, of course, not for  _the_ Finnick Odair--

( _After all,_ he muses,  _this face, I could get whatever I want, isn't that right?)_

\--only the idea of Aslin and Bo being present heaves a sigh out of his chest, as if intimidation is a physical force against his body.

 _Wouldn't that make for a headline,_ Finnick thinks.  He absentmindedly wraps the now sweets-filled plate, using the same foil in which it had been offered.  _Golden Boy dies tragically from a heart attack, at even the **thought** of talking to a teenaged-girl._

He is unsure exactly how to begin the conversation, apart from saying,  _'I know you're not a four-year-old and I know you're not helpless.'_ There always appears a  _'but'_ in the back of his head. He does not want to think of her, the way they think of her in the Capitol. That being said, she needs some help.

_She needs..._

_Don't you dare think it, Finnick._

_(No renmen li, Finnick.)_

_Make her dependent on you, and you know what will happen to her pretty little throat._

_(Ain't life a bitch?)_

_She's already so defenseless._

Besides, he wants to speak with her, about her _'helping'_ herself by _'helping'_ a subversive group. When he even attempts consideration of  _that_ , bile fills his mouth. He might not be able to get it out. He tries to think up a script, with lines and well-contemplated gestures. He falls short.

_She's not a toy._

But she is hardly a child, either.

_She needs help._

On his way to gather his goulashes and raincoat, he nearly trips over the small box delivered by Havi, first thing this morning.

 _"New family's moving in today, Finnick,"_ the man had cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. It had been early morning, barely an hour after the morning horn bleated out its mornings' greetings. 

Havi and Finnick have known each other three years, this past April; well enough to respect one another, but enough to keep their distance. The only thing they have had in common is Mrs. Odair. Now, without her to discuss, what exactly are they to do? Pull out a knife and play blood-brothers?

Havi owns the townhouse Mrs. Odair had lived in, and has become a default courier between the two Odairs, over the past few years. It never did bloom past that, mostly of Finnick's making. _Conversational_  as he might be, it is always better to keep a distance where innocent parties are concerned. It is hard enough to keep up the pretense, never mind keeping emotional attachments at bay. Making friends can be an awfully dicey endeavor.

Finnick certainly is not about to ask, why Mrs. Odair had been out of the townhouse. He refuses to learn how his mother had been in a position to get seemingly caught in the crossfire during the  _unpleasantries_  here, in the Capitol. There is a gnawing suspicion, that his punishments had not ended in the Capitol, but extended _(for seemingly the millionth time in the boy's life)_ to his home.

 _"I'm sure you understand."_ Havi's brown eyes implore forgiveness, though truly, there is little needed, where Finnick is concerned.

Man needs to make money somewhere.

Not everyone can sell their soul, and be compensated in turn with an onslaught of luxuries.

 _(Jealous, Finnick?_ the Capitol shark presses against the confines of its restraints.

_Let's play a game, why don't we?_

_Let's see how long it takes for you to slit your wrists_

_how long it takes before you ask everyone and their mother for their forgiveness._ _)_

_[Let's see if you've got me as under control as you'd like to think.]_

_"'Course."_ Finnick had forced a tight smile, taking the few items that are of enough obvious value with some hesitation. _"They can keep the furniture and dishes."_

 _"How 'bout clothing and bedsheets?"_ Havi had frowned. _"Got them boxed up-"_

 _"Keep it all,"_ Finnick shrugged, before smirking. _"Sell whatever they don't need. You'll break bank, and then some, saying it belonged to me."_

 _Though,_ Finnick had thought with a dose of bitter amusement,  _It'd sell far better in the Capitol._

Havi had given him a strange look. _"I'll suggest the idea."_

Havi held out a hand, deep charcoal skin paling even Finnick's own, mocha tan. 

 _"Feel free to stop by, Finnick,"_ the man had said, seeming uncertain how to proceed.  _"Don't be a stranger."_

 _"Certainly,"_ the lie oozed off a silver tongue easily, before Finnick could even think about it.

He did not opened the box, not in front of his acquaintance.

He still has yet to do so. He has a feeling, between its weight, and the way the items rattle about, inside, that it is mostly picture frames and knick-knacks. Perhaps his mother's jewelry. He does not need any of that. And as for photographs, once expensive, precious commodities to Finnick and his family, well, they do no good for anyone, really. Memories are so embedded in his mind, what does he need a physical image for? He has enough memories for a lifetime. Has enough photographs, too on that note. Stacks and stacks of them, some from adoring fans, some of himself in a variety of promotional spreads. He usually stuffs them in the downstairs office closet, pretending they do not exist. He only retains them, to send the occasional promo ad, autographed, back to an adoring fan or two.

The only other items of note to be had from Mother, the jewels, are mere trinkets. Mother's jewels were hand-me-downs, from her own mother, and her mother, before her. Most are knock-offs, of precious stones; nothing, to what they have in the Capitol. Sentiment has always been their greatest value. Sentiment had been important to the family, tough as Mother had been.

Finnick, now, fights the urge to scream. For what reason, he cannot exactly pin down. He kicks the box out of his way, heading to the door.

Going through spear exercises in the rain only does so much for an manic mind, and dwelling on the dead never _really_ does anyone any good.

When Havi had headed back out, the door sucked itself closed quickly behind him, a loud _bang_ slapping through static air, echoing with a _twang_ throughout the opened foyer of Finnick's home.

Finnick had wondered if there were not a water spout morphing to a twister. Luckily, though, it had not been the case; just a sporadic shriek of nature. Finnick had watched, through one of the few, unlocked shutters, to be certain Havi made his way safely through the Village's gates. The Peacekeepers have been giving interrogations to comers and goers, even Victors. Especially the closer they arrive at the gates, to dawn and sunset. Curfew has not yet been lifted.

The Golden Boy wonders if it wouldn't be best to stay put, with the roughness of the wind, and all.

 _You owe her,_ a voice keeps telling him.  _Don't be a lazy ass, she could be collapsed in a ball on the floor because of the weather._

_(Misery still loves company, right?)_

Finnick does not think he really has a right to argue, over this matter. He owes Annie and Mags both, in a way, and being frustrated or annoyed does not change that. It does not change the reality that the rareness of security is less rare when it involves fellow Victors. At the least, they all already have targets on their backs. What harm can caring really do, for any of them? He knows the answer, though he pushes it into the cage where the Capitol shark lies dormant. President Snow can still use any of them, to hurt Finnick. He can't exactly afford to give his heart out to every Victor who has trouble adjusting.

The last thing he needs, though is to alienate Annie and Mags, who clearly care about him. The last thing he needs is to drive away two of the few people who tolerate him, even at his worst, in the span of twenty-four hours.

Mags loves him, and he loves her. He is angry, yes, but anger does not overrule his affection, nor his admiration for her. Part of him is frustrated. He knows, despite his reasoning that he will probably give in, at some point. He has nothing to go on, though, and wants to let it lie before speaking with her again. If he does too soon, he will explode in anger, or cave in desperation. Neither would do either of them any good. He has never felt such an acute betrayal, not from her, of all people. He has always allowed for certain things to be kept close to her vest, but where it concerns Annie, where it concerns getting herself involved in something which could mean a rope around her neck, or a firing squad... _no, that is too serious_. He cannot allow that to happen. He cannot simply let it go. He cannot sweep it under the rug, not so hastily, without letting his disappointment _(and fear)_ sink in with Mags. 

 _But, Annie._  Did she even understand what she had done? Had she been so drugged up that, like when her father died, she simply had little messages in her head which came and went with the tide and surge of her medication? Could he really blame her, for wanting to help 'traitors'? For wanting to help Mags and subversives?

_Or are you just jealous that Mags trusted her more with the task than she would have done you?_

Finnick shakes his head, as he heads out into the cold, whipping wind. He pulls the cords to his jacket's hood tight about him, leaving just his face to burn against the windy onslaught.

Not jealous, no. He is unsure of the name of the emotion which ties knots in his stomach, but jealousy does not cover it.

Annie has not known Finnick for as long as Mags. She does not know, necessarily, when he is angry and holding it in, or when he is bitter and morose and faking with a smile and a ribbon. Yet he feels as if she does know him, that she knows him in a different way, from Mags. That she cares, in a different capacity from the older woman.

But, how many times can they play this game before one of them stops trying? Before she stops making three-in-the-morning griddlecakes, or poetry-laden dinner? Before he makes himself sick with apologies?He owes Annie. He owes her in compassion, for her empathy; in friendship, for her perpetual forgiveness. At least enough to show he knows he overreacted yesterday. He likes her, enough, to want to apologize for his part in being a disappointment, to want to hear if she knows what she has done. 

_She just wants to be happy. Isn't that right? She can't have understood, surely._

_You don't know her well enough, Finnick,_ his mind chides. 

_But from what you do know, do you think she wants the known world torn apart in war?_

He highly doubts that she wants to put herself in the line of fire, so soon after barely making it out of a deadly torrent. Being still a child _(somewhat),_ Finnick doubts Annie would think about the potential for overthrowing the government.

If she did not know, and Mags got Annie to do something _against_ _her will_ (the notion makes him furious), he needs to speak with the girl, to try to prevent it from occurring again. He remembers Lykos, forcing food down her throat, letting others feel her, touch her, force themselves on her. Annie had looked absent, let it happen as if she was not even there. Finnick cannot help but feel a bitter suspicion, that it had been the same, with rebels getting her to retrieve information; that she had simply given in, to being manipulated. Not willingly, no, but helplessly, hopelessly.

_Defenseless._

The hours have proven strange enough, mind churning with both regret and anxiety. Finnick takes a steadying breath.

He did not mean to make her feel like a child, yesterday, like she is as crazy as they make her out to be. _Or as powerless._  The last thing he wants, is for Annie to dislike him, or to think that he dislikes her. He still wants to be around her. From her note, he assumes she feels similarly.

He is glad, for that. Glad, and yet unnerved.

It is confusing.

_(You're not supposed to like people, Finnick. You're supposed to **be** liked._

_Liking them back, only gets them hurt._

_And it's not like there's decency _enough_ to spare.)_

The weather makes the journey his main focus, now. His breathless curses turn against _Mama Lanati,_ as Pesca natives refer to the weather. 

Mags told a story, once, of a hurricane, back before the Second Quell. The entire Village, and in fact most of the District, had been flattened before you could say, _'Boo!'_   The Canneries, even, had not been spared, and that truly put the nail in the coffin, where the Capitol was concerned. Since then, storm flags, seawalls, and inland shelters have become an integral part of life in District Four. It is impossible to imagine life without them.

Rather than a downpour engulfing the Golden Boy, the whistling wind spits about spray from the sea, splatting it against locked shutters and well-wrapped coat alike. The neighbors' gates tremble in _Mama Lanati's_ wrath, but the surges have not come yet. Everyone knows how to ride out a bit of wind, here, after all. Of course, it still smarts, and sets a tone of concern, as far as projectiles are concerned. If it gets bad, the rising and noon bells with send out trills, and residents here will head to the high-grounded shelters.

A morbid drizzle mixes with salty spray in the air. Bad weather, it seems, has accumulated with Finnick's sour day passed. The Peacekeepers posted at the gates are visibly sodden, and wind-warped. The four men are struggling to even stand against the infrequent, inconsistent gales. Finnick considers asking if they should not be indoors themselves. A gust suddenly spits sandy grits from the overpass, causing green eyes to sting and the Golden Boy's body to flinch violently. He nearly drops the plate, but buckles down, and continues across the cobblestone circle.

Walking without ripped apart by the wind and dust is rather difficult.

To his surprise, Aslin Sibb answers his knocking, and gives a polite smile, motioning him in from the storm. Finnick shakes off his coat and rain-boots, while Aslin takes the sloppily-wrapped dish with some hesitation. Finnick runs a hand through his hair, mussing it and starting when he hears laughter echoing from the room to his right. He hesitates, hearing muffled voices and the incoherent buzz of television programming. The whistling wind rattles the house, and for a moment, the conversation stills. Someone makes a comment, something about,  _'Mama must disagree,'_ and more raucous laughter nearly splits the walls apart.

"Is Annie home?" Finnick asks, as neutral as can be. He is unsure, if he wants her to be; if he wants to acknowledge, that, perhaps, she does not quite  _need_ him as much as he has thought. 

"Yeah," Aslin gives an accompanying nod, motioning towards the sitting room.

A male voice is overtaking the conversation on the other side of the half-opened doors. Most of it sounds to be in Creel, and it is spoken so rapidly, it is difficult for Finnick to understand. 

"Oh." Finnick hesitates, swallowing over a lump building in his throat. 

"She's got some friends over." Aslin, still holding the plate, looks between Finnick and the double-doors.

"Friends," Finnick echoes her.

She raises a brow at him.

"Oh," he repeats himself, before clearing his throat. "I'll go-"

"She'll be happy to see you," Aslin cuts him off, voice flat. "She was writing you something yesterday."

A long moan of the wind flutters inside shutters, and the voices in the other room pause.

"Az!" an unfamiliar, male voice calls out. _"Ki sa lanfè ap pran lontan?"_

 _"Fèmen bouch!"_ Aslin calls back, eliciting another round of laughter. She sighs, before looking at Finnick, and motioning for him to follow her into the sitting room. "Sissy  _gen yon envite."_

A cold chill down Finnick's spine brings the reminder that this is where Mr. Cresta's body had lain in  _dèy_. Finnick shakes it off, pasting on his smile as he pauses, just inside the room. 

 _"Kisa?"_ Annie's voice sounds. Her tone is quieter than the other had been, but just loud enough to carry as Finnick follows Aslin into the room. Annie is standing, frowning, as Finnick rounds the corner. _"Ki moun lòt...?"_

Her eyes widen as she recognizes Finnick. She says nothing, merely gaping at him. He wonders, if she has gone away, for a moment, before a warm smile slowly overtakes her features.

"Hello, Finnick!" she says, brightly. "You're just in time, we're having a storm party."

The room's fine, mahogany finishings and luxurious, satin finishings on the furnishings mirror his own. It seems brighter, in here, and Finnick realizes it is because there are a plethora of lamps, two on each end-table, never mind the two standing fixtures abutting the recliner chairs. Nearly every one, along with the built-in ceiling lights, are lit up. The fireplace, though a cold marble like Finnick's own, is warmed by a roaring fire. A collection of seashells and bits of collection items litter the mantlepiece, enough to make it feel less sparse than the cookie-cutter Annie had been offered roughly five months ago. Above the mantle, lies the television, which quietly buzzes a variety of commercials, in between local programming. The local programming here is just the weather. In One and Two, it is different, and in Eleven and Ten they have wildlife updates and warning; but here, in Four, the only major concerns are riptides, tropical storms, or hurricanes. For now, the television shows a computerized screen tracking the storm just offshore. Not yet a hurricane.

 _Not yet._  

Four teenagers _(though, really, they're not much more than children),_ are sprawled across the furniture, some settled on the plush, patterned rug. Two girls, two boys, plus Annie, of course. One of the girls is fairer skinned, like Annie, though her eyes are amber in shade, and her hair is jet-black. One of the boys has light brown skin, a shade just between Annie and Finnick. This boy's eyes are a striking, smoky blue. Both the girl and the boy look to be one of the sixteens-or-seventeens, much like Annie.

The other boy and girl, who appear alike enough to guess that they are siblings, are ebony-skinned, both with hazel-green eyes. The girl looks younger, thirteen, at most, while the boy's slight hint of a five-o-clock shadow indicates he is closer to seventeen or eighteen. Their matching black hair is plaited in intricate designs, the girls' hair trailing down her back in several braids, while the boys' braids end at the base of his skull. Finnick believes he recognizes the boy, from a handful of times he had visited Four's Career Center after his own Victory. The boy sits with bare, tanned feet on the coffee table, arms spread out along the back of the couch, on either side of him.

This boy rises, a momentarily shocked expression morphing into one of awe, as he stares at Finnick. His hazel-green eyes widen, dark skin reflecting the warmth of the fire so that he looks positively glowing. The fire brings out a reddish tone in his own hair, while adding warmth to the joy visibly expressed on the boy's features. He is skinny, gangly, almost, with legs and limbs that seem too tall for him to know what to do with them. 

The boy with the blue-grey eyes leans over, murmuring to the youngest girl of the five, and the girl covers her mouth with her hands, barely hiding a giggle.

"Finnick Odair!" the lanky, dark-brown boy exclaims. A childish excitement carries in his voice. When his friends erupt in laughter at his tone, he clears his throat, forcing a more cocksure grin that reminds Finnick too much of his own. He approaches, thrusting a hand out in offering. "Manny Jokin, pleasure t' meet you. That's my sister, Graciela."

Manny motions to the girl with near-identical coloring. In turn, Graciela gives Finnick a shy wave. Finnick nods in her direction.

"Met you at the Center last year, when I was in the sixteens. You went over tridents."

"I remember," Finnick nods, before taking the boy's hand. He feels the smile straining his cheeks, and gives the boy the slightest of winks. Finnick notices the boy flush, and tries to ignore the reaction to the mild flirtation. "That was a pretty small group."

"Yeah!" Manny's grin, visibly excited that Finnick remembers. He lacks any bashfulness that might have been called to the forefront just moments ago. "That was three full brackets, 'f you can believe it. Annie's is smaller. And the twelve's only got three, this year."

 _'Bracket'_ is the official term for the full class. There is a twelfth-bracket, a thirteenth, all the way through the eighteenth-bracket. Children can enter and leave the Center at any age, same as in regular schools. Town's college, in fact, is the only school which requires you attend through age eighteen. Education in the regular District schools varies between Pesca's college, Town's, and Waterside's. The Center is better than all three, combined, never mind the focus on survival and physical combat. Many leave by age seventeen or eighteen, especially if they are from Pesca or lower-class Waterside families. In the Center, it is expensive, and the older you get, the more expected it is of you, that you get a job, rather than continue education. Having so few students per bracket, though, reflects the times- and not in a good way. 

"Is that right?" Finnick quirks a brow.

There had been at most a dozen students, combined. That is worrying, to say the least. District Four has one of the largest populations in Panem, and that group had at best represented a _sixteenth_ of the total Reaping pool. At the Center, the eighteenth-brackets are typically classes of a dozen or more.

"Our year's pretty small, to begin with, but, yeah." Manny's expression falters, but he recovers quickly with a shrug. "That was my year through the eighteens. But we're pretty awesome, and awesomeness tends to overrule size, right?"

Finnick has to chuckle at that. "I'll say."

 _That's why no one volunteered for you,_ Finnick thinks, sparing a glance in Annie's direction.  _There were plenty of eighteens, seventeens. There were other sixteens, who were stronger, more ready than Annie; but only a handful of them had the adequate training. From that handful, none of them had the guts._

If dwindling population of trained children is any indication, it does not bode well.

Any other year, any other competitors, Annie would have lost, easily.

It brings about a tension which Finnick cannot ignore; nor, can he help glancing back at the newest Victor. He realizes they all are doing so, probably anticipating her reaction to the topic. Her hands are twisting around one another, lips pressed together. Her eyes slip shut.

There is a pregnant silence. Finnick decides to break it. 

"So, honey, are you going to introduce me to everyone?" he asks, smirking forcefully. "Or d'you want to keep me to yourself?"

The room titters with some uncertain laughter. Finnick could swear he sees a slight flush on Annie's cheeks, once her eyes have opened. She shrugs, and gives Finnick a tentative smile.

"Annie's told us a lot about you, actually," the lighter-skinned girl says coyly.

"Only because you asked," Annie murmurs, seeming distant. After a beat, she surprises Finnick by sticking her tongue out at her friend.

Muscular and pale as Manny is skinny and dark, the girl teasingly rolls her eyes in response. Amber eyes flicker back to Finnick before her smile softens; whether forced, or not, she rises, and comes over, holding out a hand the way Manny had. Finnick shakes her hand, before she has actually said her name.

"Since Annie's apparently terrible at introductions, that lug over there-" the girl motions to the boy with the beautiful blue-grey eyes.

"Oy!" the boys mock-scowls. "Lug, yourself--"

"Is Evense Soll. And  _I_ am Fabi Terez."

"Fabulous?" Finnick waggles his brows, and the girl laughs, shaking her head.

 _"Fabiola,"_ the girl corrects. She smirks. "We should actually be pretty cross with you."

"Oh?" Finnick lets the surprise turn to a cocky grin. "And why would that be?"

"Annie was supposed to come over yesterday, it was Ev's birthday." Fabi pouts slightly, though it is forced, and Finnick sees right through it. Her tongue runs over her lower lip. "But  _someone_ distracted her."

 _"Te di...,"_ Annie murmurs, her shy smile yet again faltering. She looks towards the fireplace, inhaling deeply as if she is attempting to calm herself; keep the demons at bay. Her hand reaches up to her neck, and the room stills, for a moment. Everyone is watching her, again.

Finnick feels the urge to defend her, to tell them to stop looking. But these are her friends. They do not mean any harm, not really.

It hurts, though, because all he can think, is that as much as they might sympathize, they cannot know what she has been through. 

 _They aren't Victors,_ after all.

Annie's shoulders hunch up.  _"Regrèt."_

Fabi's teasing expression falters, and the other four kids quickly shift, uncertain. 

"Annie..." Aslin offers, softly, though she remains just to Finnick's righthand side.

Annie does not respond, and her hands slide up, over her ears. She pitches forward, slightly, towards the fire.

"I brought sweets," Finnick interjects. The four kids look at him, before he notices he is being offered a shy, grateful smile by the youngest girl, Graciela. A shy smile, before she glances at Annie. "Hope you like sweetcorns."

The other four seem distracted enough by the idea of the candy. Finnick is reminded that at least three of these four friends probably are unable to afford a luxury like this. Manny might be in training, but they all three seem more Pesca than Waterside. From the ease with which they, earlier, had been speaking Creel, Finnick would guess they all hail from there.

Aslin clears her throat. "Come and get 'em."

Flopping down on the couch, Aslin unwraps the plate of sweets, leaving them out as Fabi, Manny, and Graciela quickly devour them. Even Evense takes a handful, playfully making to take the entire plate to himself. Aslin has picked up the note, before Finnick can stop her, flipping it opened and going rigid. When her eyes snap up, to meet his, Finnick feels his throat dry. The kids do not seem to have noticed, but Finnick delicately slips the paper out of Aslin's hands with a wink.

"You know what they say about prying eyes," he says, forcing a smirk.

"What do they say?" Graciela asks, tilting her head.

The girl's wide-eyed innocence stings. Finnick merely winks, crossing the room to where Annie is still standing. The kids are joking again, yelping and teasing one another. Finnick puts his back to them, so that he can block Annie from their sight, before he puts a hand on her shoulder. When he does, she initially flinches.

"Annie," he whispers, as quietly as possible. The kids must not hear him; someone turns the television up, for which he is grateful. "It's okay, you're home."

Annie swallows over a lump in her throat, seeming gone, still. But she blinks, and he thinks the focus is coming back; he thinks, maybe, if he just keeps talking, he can penetrate the fog. The note crumples in his tightened fist, while his free hand begins rubbing circles on her back.

"You're having a storm party," he begins, still keeping his voice as low as possible. "And you're friends are here, to keep you company."

Her lashes bat, fingers curling at the tips of her ears.

"And Aslin's here, because she loves you, and I'm here...

She does not respond.

"And Finnick's here."

A beat passes, before her eyes suddenly widen.

"Finnick...?" her lips form, and he tries not to let the tingle at the sound of her whispering his name get to him.

She is not back yet, not completely. But he needs her to be, because he needs to talk to her; needs for her to understand.

"Yeah," Finnick nods. His throat feels dry, and he clears it before he can continue. "I wanted to thank you, for the fish."

"I'm...," again, the words are formed, but hardly a breath behind them means that they are hardly audible. "A good cook."

"You are," Finnick replies, firmly. He realizes he has paused the circles on her back, and resumes the action. "Nobody's going to hurt you."

He regrets the words, the moment they are spoken, because he cannot promise that, cannot know that, cannot even  _expect_ that. But here, in this room, no one will hurt her, Finnick is sure of it.

After a few moments, hands ease off of her ears. They slip down, crossing across her stomach as shoulders hunch up. Her eyes do not meet his, but he feels, at the least, that she is beginning to know which is real: her dreamland, or the roaring fire with her friends. Finnick is about to crumple the note, to remove his hand from her back.

"Flooding," she says, distantly, eyes making a long blink before she looks up at him. Her brows is furrowed, lower lip trembling. She looks terrified. Eyes widen, and her brow slowly relaxes. "Had... to swim. That wasn't...?"

"It wasn't," Finnick reassures her, shaking her head. "It's just a storm."

Annie nods, gulping audibly, before looking back at the fire. He realizes the conversation has died down, and glances over his shoulder. The kids are mostly averting their eyes, but shy Graciela is watching them in fascination. Aslin, similarly, is watching them. Finnick forces a smile, before turning back to Annie.

He is about to ask to speak with her, when the abrupt screech on the television, which now flashes  _onetwothree-pause-onetwothree_  signals a surge water warning. 

"Finnick-" she gasps, looking to him, for reassurance. "Is it...?"

Finnick nods and Annie's face crumples. Graciela asks what they are supposed to do. The kids look between Finnick and Aslin.

The adults are both visibly pale. If they wait, they will face being flooded here; but if they go now, with the wind, they might get caught in a surge along the way, anyway.

_And with the wind blowing the way it is, outside..._

Outside the wind has picked up and  _onetwothree-pause-onetwothree,_ they rush to the windows, looking out to see the homes across the circle.

And  _onetwothree-pause-onetwothree_ there is a sudden updraft, which shudders the homes and the land.

And  _onetwothree-pause-onetwothree_ the power goes off and they are left with the flames under the mantle.

Aslin is yelling to put the fire out, works on stomping it out with Evense. Once out, they flee to the center foyer, the innermost part of the house. They can hear the wind shrieking, threatening to press against the house, crushing it from the outside, in.

And  _onetwothree-pause-onetwothree,_ an abrupt clap of thunder, shudders what the wind has already begun to assault. A flash of lightning precedes a burst of water down-pouring from on high. Pounding, pounding, pounding, Finnick feels his heart racing.

And  _onetwothree-pause-onetwothree_  rippings and screechings and shreddings sounds surround them.

And  _onetwothree-pause-onetwothree,_ Finnick watches as the homes across the street gradually lose  _shingle-by-shingle-by-shingle_ before the rooftops are shredded and swirling, projectiles hurtling through the air. 

And  _onetwothree-pause-onetwothree,_ they run from the windowsides while glass shatters and objects accost the house with  _slaps_ and  _bams_ and a metal pole  _slices_ with a vengeance through the wall.

And  _onetwothree-pause-onetwothree,_ Finnick pulls Annie to the floor, keeping himself on top of her, to keep anything from falling on her.

And  _onetwothree-pause-onetwothree,_ Graciela is whimpering and crying, and the kids are yelling out about going to the shelters.

"It's too late," Aslin yells, voice hardly a whisper above the wailing of the wind. She grabs Manny, as he goes for the door. "We'll never make it in this!" 

And  _onetwothree-pause-onetwothree,_ a burst of high pressure air compacts and burst through, and ears might bleed soon with the pressure that deafens and bocks out everything but the voices of the wind, the gush of both water from sky and floodwaters now rushing beneath them.

And  _onetwothree-pause-onetwothree,_ the roof to the home disappears in a moment.

And then the walls collapse.

"Annie!" Finnick grasps at her, and her arms wrap around him in the rubble. Water is pounding, blinding, deafening. He does not know if it is her screaming, or him.

It could be the wind.

He is dragging himself and Annie  away from where the massive hold remains above them. Two halves of the house collapsed in on themselves, locking against each other, and sparing their group by the skin of their teeth. 

But that isn't the end. There is another gust, another shriek, and the inlet's water presses suddenly, from the back of the house, forward; one gradual wave, before suddenly the front is split aside with water. The raging torrent splits Finnick from Annie, water suffocating as his arms struggle to keep from being pressed under. He is screaming her name each time he breaks surface. Lungs and mouth fill with salted water with each inhale.

And then, body slams with a thud against a solid surface. Air is knocked out of lungs, and breathing sounds like scratching and crying and screaming.

He sees red hair, green eyes widened in fear. A hand reaches out, gripping his shoulder.

 _Annie,_ lips  try to form the name only, _there isn't enough air._

But another rocking of the waves and a solid cabinet comes flying on its crest.

And everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pleasedon'thatemeeee!  
> &I'm sorry for the cliffhanger (and by sorry I mean not sorry)  
> I'm sure this was rife with mistakes so please don't hate me for that either :P
> 
> I've always imagined Finnick as being biracial / mixed race, along with most of the population in general. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE Sam Claflin and he plays Finnick BRILLIANTLY! but my brain's first interpretation from the books is *slightly* different than the films :3 
> 
> Part Two is going to be more Annie-POV than Finnick, and I hope to have it up within the month. I'm going to have a bit of a break, and post some other things I've been daydreaming up, so please be patient!
> 
> As always, thankyouthankyouTHANKYOUUU for reading, especially to everyone who has commented / messaged me / kudos'd / etc., I appreciate all of your support! I hope I haven't disappointed you! 
> 
> Comments / reviews / suggestions / predictions are always adored and helpful for developing things further! Thankyou! xoxo <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, never posted fanfic before.  
> In case you're wondering, I always liked the idea of Caribbean / French / Louisianan influence in District 4, not really sure why, I know it's never stated and obviously they only speak 'English' in the books, but English in the future is bound to be super different from today's version anyways? So yeah, thus the Haitian Creole (more or less) words & usages.  
> Comments & such are always appreciated <3


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